HE, 


QUARK 


THE   QUARRY 


I.  • 

JP     *',A     ^^ 


"  There  is  a  gentleman  here  who  desires  to  see  me  on  some 

business." 

FRONTISPIECE.      See  Page  300. 


THE     QUARRY 


BY 

JOHN   A.  MOROSO 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

THOMAS   FOGARTY 


Copyright,  1913, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

All  righto  reserved 


Published,  April,  1913 
Reprinted,  April,  1913 


THE  COLONIAL,  PRESS 
C.  H.  SIMONDS  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  U.  8.  A. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  There  is  a   gentleman   here  who  desires 

to  see  me  on  some  business  "          .      Frontispiece 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  ma'am?"  asked 

Kearney,  half  turning  from  his  plate     Page    29 

A  creature  that  seemed  more  a  reptile 
than  a  human  wriggled  from  the 
cross-ties  and  disappeared  in  the 
marsh "  Il8 

She  fell  back  from  him  for  a  moment,  the 

shadows  enshrouding  her      ..."      278 


THE  QUARRY 


CHAPTER  I 

HAT'S    the    charge,    lieutenant?" 

"Murder." 

Inspector  Ranscombe,  in  charge  of 
the  central  office  of  New  York's  police  depart- 
ment, gave  the  prisoner  before  him  a  second  and 
more  searching  glance,  his  keen,  gray  eyes  taking 
in  every  line  of  his  features,  the  arch  of  brow,  the 
formation  of  the  ears,  the  jaw  angle,  the  lips, 
chin,  nostrils,  the  cheek-bones  and  the  eyes. 

The  prisoner  straightened  his  well-formed 
shoulders  as  he  returned  the  glance.  He  stood 
with  a  pair  of  thin  and  soiled  hands  clasped  before 
him.  There  was  a  glint  of  steel  at  the  wrists, 
the  sleeves  of  his  coat  only  partly  hiding  the 
manacles  that  shamed  him.  His  clothes  were 


2  THE   QUARRY 

those  of  a  boy  from  the  country,  and  he  wore  them 
awkwardly  in  the  bright,  sunny  room  of  the 
chief  of  the  city's  detectives,  where  everything 
was  spick  and  span  and  the  uniforms  of  the 
office  staff  as  trim  and  fresh  as  though  just  from 
the  department's  tailoring  contractor. 

Ranscombe,  a  man  beyond  the  half  century 
mark,  short  and  at  times  brutal  in  his  speech, 
his  heavy  jaw  and  bristling  white  mustache  sug- 
gesting latent  ferocity,  felt  a  little  twinge  at  his 
heart  as  he  told  himself  that  this  youth  bore  none 
of  the  marks  of  the  born  criminal. 

"  What's  your  name,  boy?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

"  James  Montgomery,"  was  the  answer,  husk- 
ily given. 

"  How  old  are  you?  " 

"  Twenty-one." 

"Guilty?" 

Montgomery  shook  his  head  as  his  lips  trem- 
bled and  the  denial  of  guilt  refused  to  leave  them. 

The  inspector  turned  to  the  detective  lieu- 
tenant in  charge  of  the  prisoner. 

"  What  is  it,  Kearney?  "  he  asked.  "  A  street 
quarrel?  " 

"  No,  sir;  bank  watchman  killed;  he's  a  yegg." 


THE   QUARRY  3 

"A  yegg!" 

"  Yes,  sir.  The  West  Side  National  Bank  was 
blown  last  night.  The  watchman  was  murdered. 
Three  men  did  the  job.  The  policeman  on  the 
beat  heard  the  explosion  and  got  this  lad.  The 
other  two  rriade  their  get-away." 

"  You  got  a  case  here  that  won't  fall  down?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;    it's  a  good  case." 

The  inspector  hesitated  as  if  debating  in  his 
mind  whether  to  put  the  boy  through  an  exam- 
ination. It  was  the  first  hour  of  the  day's  work 
and  his  desk  was  piled  high  with  reports  needing 
his  attention.  A  score  of  his  picked  men  were 
waiting  a  chance  to  report  personally  on  various 
important  cases.  Lieutenant  Kearney  seldom 
needed  aid  from  his  chief.  He  was  a  detective  of 
experience  and  one  who  could  safely  be  trusted 
to  clear  up  any  case. 

Ranscombe  turned  to  the  pile  of  documents  on 
his  desk. 

"  Take  him  to  the  identification  department 
and  go  ahead  with  the  case,"  he  instructed  the 
detective. 

The  fingers  of  Kearney's  right  hand  gathered 
up  the  folds  of  his  prisoner's  sleeve  until  his 


4  THE   QUARRY 

grip  became  vicelike.  He  wheeled  about  and 
started  for  the  corridor,  the  boy  half  staggering 
along  with  him. 

In  the  main  hall  of  the  building  they  took  a 
rattling  and  palsied  elevator  to  the  top  floor. 
Here  they  entered  a  small,  dingy  room  where 
were  scales,  a  large  tripod  with  a  camera  topping 
it,  and  an  iron  frame  for  holding  in  position  the 
head  of  the  subject  to  be  photographed. 

Two  identification  experts  in  uniform  took 
the  prisoner  in  hand  and  photographed  him, 
profile  and  full  face. 

Montgomery  was  then  placed  on  a  small 
platform  and  his  height  measurement  made. 
One  of  the  experts  filled  in  an  identification  sheet 
as  the  other  took  the  length  of  the  prisoner's 
arms  and  legs,  the  circumference  of  the  trunk 
at  the  navel,  and  the  hips  and  the  chest  measure- 
ment. With  a  steel  compass  the  measurement 
between  the  base  of  the  nose  and  the  base  of 
the  skull  was  made.  The  expert  called  off  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  right  ear  in  a  droning 
voice.  All  the  figures  went  down  in  ink  on  the 
identification  blank,  a  piece  of  white  cardboard 
six  inches  wide  by  four  in  length. 


THE   QUARRY  5 

The  man  at  the  desk  put  down  his  pen  and  left 
his  chair,  advancing  to  the  prisoner.  He  stopped 
directly  before  him  and  fastened  his  eyes  on 
Montgomery's  as  if  to  hypnotize  him. 

The  prisoner  returned  the  gaze,  his  pupils 
dilating  as  fear  crept  into  his  heart,  —  a  fear 
that  he  could  not  define.  He  had  not  slept  in 
thirty-six  hours  and  he  had  not  eaten  in  twenty- 
four.  He  felt  as  if  his  body  were  swaying,  but 
the  clear,  searching  eyes  so  close  to  his  seemed  to 
hold  him  to  his  heels. 

Suddenly  the  eyes  of  the  expert  were  with- 
drawn and  Montgomery  regained  control  of 
his  senses.  He  saw  the  man  back  at  his  desk 
and  writing.  He  was  putting  into  the  record 
the  color  of  the  prisoner's  eyes,  a  description  of 
their  shape  and  of  whatever  peculiarities  he  had 
discovered  in  them. 

In  his  weak  and  exhausted  condition  Mont- 
gomery was  easily  bewildered.  He  was  in  a 
state  of  mild  stupefaction  as  the  man  with  the 
measuring  instruments  again  began  work.  Soon 
the  expert's  voice  was  droning  out  more  measure- 
ments. The  length  of  the  nose  at  the  bridge, 
its  projection  at  the  highest  point  and  at  the 


6  THE   QUARRY 

nostrils,  the  height  and  width  and  peculiarities 
of  the  forehead,  the  shape  of  the  chin,  the  nature 
of  the  setting  and  filling  of  the  teeth,  their  num- 
ber and  condition,  the  shape  of  the  lobe  of  the 
right  ear  and  its  border,  the  color  of  the  hair  and 
its  condition  were  all  placed  in  the  record  that 
would  make  James  Montgomery  a  marked  man 
and  easy  police  prey  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

Kearney  unlocked  the  handcuffs.  "  Take  off 
your  clothes,"  he  ordered. 

The  naked  lad  was  placed  on  the  scales  and 
his  weight  taken.  The  left  foot  and  the  little 
finger  of  the  left  hand  were  measured.  The  two 
experts  then  examined  every  square  inch  of 
the  prisoner's  body  and  made  note  of  every  mark, 
mole,  scar  and  cutaneous  peculiarity. 

As  Montgomery  feebly  struggled  back  into 
his  home-fashioned  underwear  and  poorly  fitting 
suit  of  clothes,  the  Bertillon  men  studied  him 
carefully  and  keenly,  as  if  they  were  two  con- 
noisseurs at  a  county  fair  passing  upon  an  es- 
pecially interesting  steer.  They  were  seeking 
material  to  fill  in  that  part  of  the  record  carrying 
the  title  line:  "  Peculiarities  of  Habit  and  Ac- 
tion." 


THE   QUARRY  7 

They  conferred  in  whispers  and  decided  that 
the  prisoner  belonged  to  the  "  dopey  "  class.  He 
was  of  good  frame  but  appeared  listless  and  weak. 
They  were  not  medical  men  and  they  could  not 
know  that  malnutrition  was  the  cause  of  the 
lad's  feebleness  and  that  misery  of  soul  had  sent 
his  manhood  reeling  over  the  ropes. 

With  the  handcuffs  clinking  by  his  side,  Kearney 
took  his  man  into  an  adjoining  room  where  the 
grip  of  the  police  would  squeeze  down  on  the 
life  of  James  Montgomery  with  the  last  possible 
pound  of  pressure. 

The  prisoner  was  led  to  a  desk  on  which  was 
a  long,  white  form  ruled  into  twelve  rectangles. 
A  Bertillon  man  caught  his  wrists  and  pressed 
his  fingers  down  upon  a  marble  slab  covered  with 
printer's  ink.  The  prints  of  all  the  fingers  of  each 
hand  were  made  in  the  record,  and  then  prints 
of  the  first  joints  of  the  four  fingers  were  made 
in  other  rectangles.  A  pen  was  handed  the 
prisoner  and  he  was  made  to  sign  his  name  to  the 
sheet  of  paper.  As  he  lifted  the  pen  from  the 
paper,  the  Bertillon  man  grasped  his  right  fore- 
finger and  made  a  separate  record  of  it  just  under 
the  name. 


8  THE   QUARRY 

The  police  no  longer  depended  on  the  name  or 
facial  characteristics  as  a  means  of  identifying 
the  prisoner.  The  name  James  Montgomery 
meant  little  if  anything  now.  But  the  little 
whorls,  "  islands,"  parabolas  and  "  breaks  "  show- 
ing in  the  finger-prints  in  that  record  for- 
ever tagged  their  man.  He  might  grow  old  and 
feeble  and  so  change  his  appearance  that  even 
his  own  brother  would  know  him  not,  but  the 
finger-prints  would  never  change;  and  no  other 
human  born  on  earth  would  have  the  same  little 
circles  in  the  skin,  which  nature  so  wonderfully 
and  strangely  twists  in  separate  designs  for  each 
of  the  human  species. 

The  police  record  of  James  Montgomery  went 
into  the  files  and  his  pictures  into  the  gallery  of 
rogues. 

Kearney  took  his  man  back  to  the  wheezy 
elevator  and  below  to  the  main  floor.  A  short 
flight  of  winding  stairs  took  them  to  the  basement 
and  a  little  prison  known  as  "  The  Barrel."  This 
cramped  and  dark  place  would  hold  Montgomery 
until  he  was  arraigned  before  a  magistrate  and 
the  slow  process  of  marching  through  the  courts 
to  prison  or  liberty  was  begun.  Here,  beneath 


THE   QUARRY  9 

the  level  of  the  street,  he  could  send  no  word  to 
lawyer  or  friend,  and  he  was  as  far  removed  from 
the  saving  benefits  of  the  habeas  corpus  as  if 
he  were  existing  before  the  signing  of  Magna 
Carta. 

Pending  his  arraignment  in  court,  this  citizen 
of  the  United  States  was  without  one  single  trace 
of  consideration  by  the  law  which  was  written 
for  his  protection.  A  habeas  corpus  writ  might 
find  its  way  from  the  roof  of  the  dingy  building 
in  Mulberry  Street  to  the  front  and  rear  doors, 
but  the  "  Barrel  "  in  the  basement  was  a  strictly 
and  jealously  guarded  police  institution.  It 
was  sound-proof  and  the  voice  of  a  prisoner  crying 
out  and  demanding  his  right  to  be  heard  was  as  the 
voice  of  a  sparrow  against  the  roar  of  the  tempest. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  "  Barrel "  was  aptly  named,  for  no 
tighter  prison  was  ever  fashioned  over 
or  under  ground.  Only  one  prisoner  ever 
escaped  from  it,  and  he  was  the  black  sheep  in 
the  family  of  a  police  lieutenant  high  in  power 
in  the  Lieutenants'  Association.  He  did  not  have 
to  file  the  steel  bars  of  his  cell  or  bludgeon  the 
moribund  turnkey.  The  doors  were  left  open 
for  him  and  his  way  was  clear.  The  details  of 
this  escape  are  all  written  in  the  strangely  com- 
plex and  fascinating  history  of  the  police  depart- 
ment of  the  City  of  New  York. 

A  single  gas-jet  made  a  yellow  smear  in  the 
blackness  of  the  "  Barrel's  "  noonday  and  mid- 
night. The  turnkey  was  often  away  from  his 
post,  sunning  himself  in  winter,  chatting  with 
the  headquarters  reporters  from  their  shanty- 
offices  across  Mulberry  Street,  or  in  the  corridors 
of  the  building  picking  up  police  gossip.  It  was 
safe  enough  for  him  to  make  these  excursions, 


THE   QUARRY  11 

molelike,  from  underground,  for  escape  from 
the  "  Barrel  "  without  connivance  was  impos- 
sible. 

In  the  tight  little  police  prison  the  only  sound 
that  reached  the  prisoners  was  the  faint,  soft 
shuffling  of  feet  that  somehow  managed  to  work 
its  way  like  a  wireless  message  through  stone, 
earth  and  steel  from  the  sidewalk  above. 

The  dragging  of  the  myriad  feet  began  at  six 
in  the  morning  and  at  eight  o'clock  the  shuffling 
above  reached  its  greatest  volume.  It  died  down 
and  away  by  nine.  At  noon  the  occupants  of 
the  "  Barrel  "  heard  it  swing  into  full  force 
suddenly  and  continue  until  one  o'clock.  At 
five  in  the  evening  it  began  again,  and  at  six 
swelled  higher  than  at  any  time  during  the  day, 
as  the  factories,  loft  buildings  and  offices  dis- 
gorged themselves  of  the  multitudes  of  workers 
and  the  rush  for  subway,  elevated  and  surface 
roads  began. 

During  the  chaos  which  followed  the  destruc- 
tion of  San  Francisco,  one  awful,  sinister,  fright- 
ening sound  welled  above  the  turmoil:  the  steady, 
rhythmic  tramping  of  many  tired  feet.  It  came 
from  the  heavily  guarded  columns  of  prisoners 


12  THE  QUARRY 

being  herded  from  tottering  walls  to  open  spaces. 
It  beat  on  the  air  in  toneless  measure  as  the 
dropping  of  earth  into  a  half-filled  grave.  To 
the  men  in  the  "  Barrel "  the  sound  of  Manhat- 
tan's lock-step  and  the  occasional  clank  of  an  iron 
door  were  the  only  breaks  in  the  solemn  stillness 
of  death  in  life. 

It  was  noon  when  Montgomery  groped  about 
his  little  black  cell  and  found  an  iron  shelf 
hinged  to  one  of  its  walls.  He  threw  himself  on  a 
dirty,  twisted  blanket,  his  body  worn  out  and  his 
mind  a  blank.  His  stomach  called  for  food,  but 
he  dared  not  ask  for  any.  The  lunch  hour  tramp- 
ing of  feet  above  lulled  him  into  oblivion.  His 
tired  eyes  closed  and  he  slept. 

A  voice,  sounding  very  faintly  at  first  but 
gathering  volume  until  his  ears  ached,  awakened 
him. 

"  Hell,  I  thought  you  was  dead,"  he  heard  the 
turnkey  say.  "  Here,  take  this." 

The  prisoner  dropped  his  legs  over  the  iron 
pallet's  edge  and  held  out  his  hands. 

The  turnkey  had  brought  him  a  large  tin  cup 
filled  with  beef  stew,  and  the  savor  of  it  made  the 
boy's  brain  reel  with  the  delights  of  anticipation. 


THE  QUARRY  13 

He  lifted  the  cup  to  his  lips  and  drank  from  it 
eagerly.  The  turnkey  handed  him  a  piece  of 
bread.  He  clutched  it,  stuck  it  into  the  stew  and 
ate  of  it  with  little  grunts  of  animal  satisfaction. 

Montgomery  heard  the  cell  door  slam  and  the 
key  turn  in  the  lock.  With  the  last  crumb  of 
bread  he  wiped  the  cup  clean  of  the  last  drop 
of  the  stew,  and  over  this  morsel  he  lingered  as  a 
child  lingers  over  its  last  bit  of  candy. 

There  was  no  article  of  furniture  in  the  cell. 
He  placed  the  tin  cup  on  the  floor  and  again 
stretched  out  on  the  pallet.  He  could  feel  the 
food  in  his  stomach  and  warmth  begin  to  suffuse 
his  body.  As  the  welcome  process  of  digestion 
started,  the  starved,  tired  lad  forgot  his  sorrows 
and  remembered  his  miseries  no  more  in  dream- 
less and  refreshing  slumber. 

Simple  as  was  the  food,  and  only  too  slight  for  a 
famished  youth,  it  started  the  blood  coursing 
healthily  through  his  veins  once  more.  This 
second  sleep  brought  back  his  strength,  and  the 
fog  that  had  come  to  his  brain  while  he  was 
undergoing  the  strange  hardships  of  identification 
began  to  lift.  When  he  wakened  again  he  found 
that  nature,  replenished  with  fuel,  had  cast  off 


14  THE  QUARRY 

the  dread  load  of  despair  that  had  settled  upon 
him. 

He  knew  not  whether  it  was  day  or  night.  He 
rubbed  his  face  briskly,  taking  a  dry  bath  and 
equalizing  the  surface  circulation  of  his  blood. 
He  threw  out  his  arms  and  legs  vigorously,  re- 
moving the  kinks  in  his  muscles. 

Through  the  bars  of  the  cell  he  saw  the  yellow 
smear  of  light  and  the  turnkey  sitting  beneath  it, 
smoking  a  pipe.  He  was  debating  the  advisability 
of  asking  the  day  and  hour  when  the  door  of  the 
"  Barrel  "  rattled  and  his  keeper  bestirred  him- 
self. 

A  man  in  uniform  was  admitted.  The  turn- 
key placed  his  pipe  in  his  chair  and  came  to 
Montgomery's  cell. 

"  Get  your  hat,"  he  ordered  as  he  unlocked 
the  door. 

Montgomery  groped  about  for  his  cloth  cap, 
found  it  and  stepped  out  of  the  cell. 

"  It's  time  for  the  line-up,"  he  was  informed. 
"  They  want  you  up-stairs." 

In  charge  of  the  uniformed  man  he  made  his 
way  up  the  winding  stairway  and  stepped  into 
the  blinding  sunlight  which  flooded  the  assembly 


THE   QUARRY  15 

room  of  the  detective  bureau.  The  room  was 
large  and  wainscotted  high  with  racks  of  pic- 
tures, —  the  old  Rogues'  Gallery.  In  the  center 
of  the  room  was  a  clump  of  fifteen  men  and 
three  women.  They  made  up  the  police  crop  of 
the  night  before.  Yeggmen,  burglars,  pickpock- 
ets, confidence  men  and  a  black-browed  Sicilian 
bomb  thrower  were  included  in  the  group.  The 
women,  blowsy,  frowsy,  and  insolent,  were  com- 
mon thieves. 

Montgomery  was  put  in  this  herd  and  told 
to  wait  there. 

A  lieutenant  in  uniform  sat  at  a  high  desk 
behind  a  heavy  brass  rail,  his  gray  head  bowed 
over  the  "  blotter,"  a  book  in  which  the  record 
of  arrests  is  kept.  Half  a  dozen  uniformed  police- 
men were  doing  duty  as  doormen. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  anxious,  nerve-wearing 
delay  a  door  opened  and  on  the  threshold  ap- 
peared a  man  in  the  garb  of  a  citizen.  Mont- 
gomery felt  the  prisoners  about  him  turning  in 
one  direction  and  he  turned  and  looked.  He 
saw  the  man  in  the  door.  There  was  something 
uncanny  about  his  appearance  and  he  looked  more 
closely.  The  man's  face  was  covered  with  a 


16  THE  QUARRY 

black  mask.  He  stepped  into  the  room  and 
another  masked  man  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

The  prisoners  in  the  center  of  the  room  drew 
closer  together.  The  second  masked  man  entered 
and  a  third  took  his  place,  to  be  framed  spectre- 
like  and  sinister  in  the  white  casing  of  the  door. 

There  was  a  snicker  of  contempt  from  several 
of  the  prisoners  and  a  whispered  and  filthy 
anathema  as  the  plain-clothes  men  gradually 
began  to  crowd  the  room.  Montgomery  counted 
the  first  and  then  the  second  dozen  and  still  they 
came,  silently,  and  showing  hideous  black  patches 
where  human  faces  should  have  been. 

A  circle  was  formed  about  the  little  group  in 
the  center  of  the  room.  The  prisoners  edged  to- 
gether in  a  rapidly  tightening  clump  of  helpless 
humanity.  The  nerve  of  one  of  the  women  began 
to  go.  She  blurted  out  an  oath  at  the  top  of  her 
voice  and  followed  it  with  an  hysterical  laugh 
that  was  half  blubbering. 

"There's  Red  Callahan!"  she  cried,  leveling 
her  finger  at  one  of  the  masked  men.  "  There's 
Red,  the  boy  after  the  graft,  the  crookedest 
bull  y'ever  seen  in  this  town." 

Close    to    Montgomery    a    squat,    long-armed 


THE  QUARRY  17 

prisoner  with  prognathous  jaw  and  sloping 
forehead  began  rumbling  out  expletives.  Ugly 
as  were  the  curses,  it  was  better  than  silence,  this 
low,  animal-like  sound  of  protest. 

All  the  while  the  eyes  of  the  detectives  flashed 
through  the  masks  as  the  light  would  strike  them. 
They  peered  steadily  at  the  faces  and  forms  within 
the  circle,  studying  their  "  Peculiarities  of  Habit 
and  Action."  The  hunters  would  know  their 
quarry  again  when  time  came  to  break  open  new 
leads,  but  the  quarry  in  flight  would  not  know 
the  faces  of  the  men  after  them. 

This  was  the  morning  line-up  at  headquarters. 
It  was  as  if  a  number  of  lithe,  blood-thirsting 
ferrets  had  been  turned  into  a  circular  pit  for 
each  of  eighteen  rats,  and  the  rats,  being 
without  a  corner  into  which  they  might  crowd 
for  the  final  struggle  for  life,  had  run  to  the  center 
of  the  pit  to  perish  back  to  back. 

It  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes  but  it  seemed 
to  James  Montgomery,  a  boy  fresh  from  the 
countryside,  that  he  had  been  in  this  chamber  of 
horrors  so  long  that  he  had  become  palsied  with 
the  years. 

His  head  was  swimming  and  his  heart  going 


18  THE   QUARRY 

like  a  trip-hammer  when  he  was  shoved  into  a 
prison  van  with  the  others  and  taken  to  the 
Jefferson  Market  police  court  in  the  lower  West 
Side  to  be  arraigned. 

As  dismal  as  was  the  interior  of  the  ill-lighted 
court-room,  the  first  glimpse  of  the  black-robed 
magistrate  brought  a  feeling  of  relief  to  Mont- 
gomery. He  was  in  a  court  of  justice,  an  in- 
stitution designed  for  people  in  the  very  plight 
in  which  he  found  himself.  The  innocent  would 
here  find  protection  and  the  guilty  would  re- 
ceive punishment.  The  courts  were  as  much  for 
the  people  as  for  the  police,  he  thought. 

As  the  line  of  prisoners  edged  along  in  front 
of  the  magistrate's  desk,  he  began  to  frame  the 
words  he  would  say  in  his  own  behalf.  Surely 
he  would  be  given  a  chance  to  declare  his  in- 
nocence. 

At  last  it  came  his  turn.  He  stepped  upon  the 
little  elevation,  known  as  the  "  bridge,"  and 
looked  over  the  edge  of  the  magistrate's  desk. 
The  magistrate  did  not  look  at  the  prisoner  but 
gave  all  his  attention  to  a  document  placed  be- 
fore him  by  a  clerk  at  his  right  hand.  He  signed 
it  and  gave  it  to  Detective  Kearney,  who  held 


THE   QUARRY  19 

fast  to  the  sleeve  of  the  accused.  The  policeman 
on  duty  at  the  bridge  pulled  back  the  prisoner 
and  Kearney  started  off  through  the  crowd  with 
him.  In  his  right  hand  the  detective  held  the 
document  committing  Montgomery  to  the  Tombs 
to  await  an  investigation  of  the  charge  against 
him  and  an  indictment  by  the  grand  jury. 

Within  a  half-hour  from  the  time  he  stepped 
up  on  the  bridge,  with  his  protest  of  innocence 
ready  on  his  lips,  James  Montgomery  was  in  a 
cell  in  Murderers'  Row  in  the  Tombs. 


CHAPTER  III 

MICHAEL  KEARNEY  was  one  of  the  star 
plain-clothes  men  of  New  York.  He  had 
little  imagination  and  the  psychological 
theories  of  Miinsterberg  and  Lombroso  did  not 
interest  him.  He  had  heard  that  there  were 
such  writers  on  criminology  but  he  had  never 
read  anything  they  had  written,  and  if  he  had 
tried  to  read  their  works  he  would  not  have  been 
able  to  comprehend  them  because  of  their  scholar- 
liness.  His  life  was  given  to  dealing  with  the 
raw  stuff,  the  actual  criminal  and  the  actual 
crime.  He  never  shaped  a  theory;  the  district 
attorney  and  his  assistants  could  indulge  in  that 
after  he  had  turned  in  the  evidence. 

Kearney  "  went  on  the  cops,"  as  the  depart- 
ment slang  has  it,  when  he  was  twenty-three  years 
old.  He  had  done  two  years'  work  at  the  polls 
in  his  election  precinct  and  his  father  before  him 
had  been  a  Tammany  man.  He  was  among  the 
humble  but  nevertheless  efficient  and  necessary 


THE  QUARRY  21 

toilers  in  the  great  political  machine  which  for 
so  many  years  has  controlled  the  government  of 
New  York.  His  appointment  to  the  force  was 
his  reward  for  political  chores  done  in  a  manner 
satisfactory  to  his  precinct  captain  and  the  as- 
sembly district  leader. 

In  the  police  school  Kearney  was  taught  how  to 
heel  a  crook,  how  to  strangle  an  assailant,  how 
to  suddenly  shoot  upward  the  heavy  base  of  his 
big  right  hand  to  the  chin  of  a  foe  from  the  under- 
world and  shock  his  brain  with  the  jolt,  how  to 
twist  an  arm  so  that  agony  would  subdue  an 
obstreperous  prisoner,  and  how  to  pick  up  from  the 
street  and  heave  to  his  shoulders  a  corpse  twice 
his  own  weight.  These  essentials  he  worked  out 
with  dogged  application  and  terrific  sweat  on  the 
wrestling  mats  in  the  training  room. 

Kearney  was  taught  how  to  swing  the  butt  of 
a  revolver,  keeping  the  right  index  finger  inside 
of  the  guard  so  that  with  a  twist  the  weapon 
could  be  turned  instantly  into  position  for  firing. 
His  instructors  transmitted  to  him  every  trick  in 
brutal  contest  with  the  same  care  that  the  mother 
of  pit  dogs  teaches  her  whelps  the  holds  for  limb 
and  throat. 


22  THE  QUARRY 

After  this  kindergarten  training,  Kearney  went 
to  the  identification  school,  where  he  was  taught 
the  art  of  keeping  a  fellow  human  branded  with 
his  guilt  until  the  day  of  his  death.  At  a  little 
desk  of  the  same  style  of  construction  that  is  used 
in  the  public  schools,  he  sat  for  days,  listening 
keenly  to  lectures  and  watching  his  instructor  draw 
on  the  blackboard  human  profiles  and  sketches  of 
ears  and  noses.  Here  he  developed  the  power  of 
observation  and  also  strengthened  his  memory. 

Having  learned  to  "  spot,"  or  pick  out,  a 
criminal,  Kearney  was  sent  to  the  streets  with  a 
senior  in  point  of  service  who  taught  him  to 
"  shadow."  Identification,  pursuit,  detection  and 
prosecution  were  acquired  by  hard  work  and 
conscientious  attention  to  the  tasks  put  before 
him.  He  became  a  man  with  a  camera  eye  and 
one  with  but  a  single  joy  in  life  —  the  chase! 

As  Kearney  advanced  in  his  profession,  he 
became  known  as  a  detective  who  never  stopped 
on  a  trail  until  he  had  caught  up  with  the  quarry. 
After  five  years  he  was  made  a  first  grade  lieu- 
tenant at  headquarters;  he  had  become  a  silent, 
almost  sullen,  man,  looked  up  to  by  those  under 
him  and  feared  by  those  over  him,  who  drew 


THE  QUARRY  23 

larger  salaries  but  who  had  less  capacity  as  man- 
hunters. 

If  any  of  the  sense  of  humor  had  come  to  him 
with  his  Irish  blood,  Kearney  lost  it  in  early 
youth  with  other  boyish  pleasures.  The  bright, 
laughing  side  of  life  was  not  for  him.  There  is 
plenty  of  strong  jest  and  grim  comedy  in  the 
underworld,  but  there  was  no  fun  in  Mike  Kearney 
and  consequently  he  did  not  appreciate  any  grade 
or  quality  of  mirth. 

But  Kearney  had  one  pleasure  in  life,  and  it 
was  so  satisfying  to  him  that  his  homely,  clean- 
shaven face  would  break  into  a  smile  at  the 
mere  thought  of  it.  This  pleasure  was  his  home. 
It  was  not  the  home  of  the  average  man  of  thirty 
years,  with  a  contented  wife  and  growing  chil- 
dren, but  it  was  good  enough  for  Kearney,  for 
his  old  mother  kept  it  spotlessly  clean  and  snug 
for  him,  and  therein  she  worshiped  her  only 
son.  In  a  comfortable  little  flat  in  the  lower 
East  Side  mother  and  son  lived.  She  was  all 
the  world  to  him  and  he  was  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

The  day  before  the  trial  of  James  Montgomery 
for  murder,  Kearney  started  home  after  a  long 
conference  with  a  young  assistant  district  attor- 


24  THE  QUARRY 

ney  who  had  been  given  the  case  for  prosecution. 
They  had  gone  over  the  evidence  together  care- 
fully and  both  had  agreed,  with  considerable 
satisfaction,  that  the  jury  would  surely  bring 
in  a  verdict  of  murder  in  the  second  degree  if  it 
failed  to  bring  in  a  first  degree  verdict  entailing 
death  in  the  chair. 

Counsel  had  been  appointed  by  a  justice  in  the 
Criminal  Division  of  the  Supreme  Court,  as 
Montgomery  was  friendless  and  penniless.  An 
effort  had  been  made  to  have  this  lawyer  plead 
guilty  to  manslaughter  for  the  defendant.  The 
docket  was  heavy  and  time  and  expense  would 
be  saved.  For  thus  helping  out  the  county, 
Montgomery  would  be  repaid  with  a  sentence 
of  fifteen  or  twenty  years.  But  the  boy's  counsel 
reported  that  his  client  insisted  on  his  innocence 
and  refused  to  plead  guilty  to  any  degree  of  crime. 

Mike  Kearney  was  satisfied.  His  evidence 
was  all  in  shape.  He  left  the  cracked,  dirty, 
Criminal  Courts  building  on  Centre  Street  and 
threaded  his  way  into  the  lower  East  Side.  On 
Oliver  Street,  close  to  the  old  Cherry  Hill  section, 
he  came  to  a  three-story  brick  building  that  had 
been  a  fine  residence  in  the  days  when  Canal 


THE   QUARRY  25 

Street  was  the  city's  northern  boundary.  It 
had  been  made  over  into  flats  and  his  home  was 
on  the  top  floor.  As  he  approached  the  house,  he 
saw  the  gray  head  of  his  mother  at  a  front  window, 
where  she  was  watching  and  waiting  for  him. 
He  shouted  up  to  ask  whether  she  wanted  him 
to  run  any  errand  before  dinner.  She  shook  her 
head  and  withdrew  it  as  he  entered  the  vestibule 
ef  the  old-fashioned  house. 

At  the  head  of  the  top  flight  of  stairs  his  mother 
stood  waiting  for  him.  She  kissed  him  and  with 
a  hand  on  his  arm  escorted  him  into  the  kitchen 
of  the  flat.  She  pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  kitchen 
table  and  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat. 

The  room  was  spotless  and  had  a  wholesome, 
homely  aspect.  On  the  brightly  polished  range 
a  kettle  was  singing.  The  floor  was  bare,  save  for 
an  oilcloth  mat  before  the  stove,  but  the  boards 
were  as  white  as  if  they  had  been  rubbed  with 
pumice  after  much  soaping  and  scrubbing.  From 
the  edge  of  a  long  shelf  swung  long-handled  spoons 
and  forks,  pots  and  pans,  and  other  implements 
essential  to  the  happiness  of  a  home-loving  and 
industrious  woman. 

The  only  picture  on  the  kitchen  walls  —  and 


26  THE  QUARRY 

the  kitchen  was  also  the  dining-room  for  mother 
and  son  —  was  that  of  the  Saviour.  His  benign 
countenance  looked  with  a  tender  and  com- 
passionate smile  upon  the  rather  portly,  bustling 
old  mother  and  the  son  who  loved  her  and  only 
her  of  all  the  people  of  the  world. 

At  the  two  open  windows  a  gentle  breeze  of 
the  autumn  evening  made  crispy,  scrim  curtains 
rise,  flutter  and  fall.  Kearney  tilted  his  chair 
back  against  the  wall  and  sighed  his  content 
as  he  sat  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  glanced  about 
the  room.  He  had  as  yet  said  nothing. 

Mrs.  Kearney  went  to  a  window  opening  on 
the  fire-escape  and  reached  into  a  box. 

"  I  have  a  surprise  f'r  me  darlin'  boy,"  she 
said,  hiding  something  behind  her  ample  apron 
and  smiling  with  love  and  pride  upon  her  son. 

He  smiled  back  to  her  with  an  inquiring  arch  of 
his  sandy  eyebrows. 

"  I'm  getting  ixtravagant  in  me  old  age,  Mike," 
she  told  him,  with  a  little  laugh  of  content  and 
happiness.  "  But  as  me  boy  is  a  first  grade 
lieutenant  and  will  soon  be  after  getting  in  the 
grade  of  captain,  I  thought  I  would  order  this." 

She  held  up  a  brown  bottle  of  beer  of  better 


THE   QUARRY  27 

quality  than  they  had  been  accustomed  to  afford 
in  past  years. 

"  I  tried  it  mesilf,  Mike,"  she  went  on.  "  It 
was  after  I'd  finished  the  washin'  an'  it  was 
grand.  Shall  I  open  it  f'r  ye?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  Ye're  that  solemn,  Mike,"  she  protested,  as 
she  removed  the  tin  top  from  the  bottle,  "  that 
ye'd  give  a  good  fairy  th'  blues.  What's  ailin' 
ye,  lad?" 

"  Nuthin,"  he  replied,  as  he  took  the  bottle 
and  swigged  it  from  the  neck.  Getting  his 
breath  after  a  deep  potation,  he  added:  "  I  gotta 
case  on  to-morrow  and  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
slip-up." 

"  A  big  case?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  but  it's  murder." 

"  Murder!  "  she  echoed,  with  awe  in  her  voice. 

"  The  Montgomery  case  I  told  ye  about." 

"  O,  an'  he's  only  a  broth  of  a  boy!  " 

"  Crooks  start  young." 

He  returned  to  his  beer  as  she  spread  a  clean 
cloth  and  placed  knives,  forks  and  plates  for 
two  on  the  table. 

The  dusk  came  and  the  deep  shadow  of  a  tene- 


28  THE  QUARRY 

ment  in  the  rear  of  the  little,  old-fashioned  house 
crept  to  the  scrim  curtains  and  darkened  them. 
Kearney  closed  the  windows  and  lighted  the  gas- 
jet  over  the  center  of  the  room. 

The  mother  placed  bread  and  butter,  boiled 
beef,  potatoes  and  cabbage  on  the  table  and  they 
sat  down  for  their  evening  meal.  Mrs.  Kearney 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  And  her  son,  from 
long  habit,  bowed  his  head  and  touched  his 
breast  in  three  places. 

They  were  eating  in  silence  when  the  electric 
bell  beside  the  kitchen  door  tingled  feebly. 

"  Who's  that,  I  wonder? "  asked  Kearney, 
reaching  behind  him  and  pressing  the  button 
which  would  open  the  street  entrance.  They  had 
resumed  their  meal  when  there  came  a  light  tap 
at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  called  Mrs.  Kearney. 

The  door  opened.  The  light  overhead  flooded 
the  frail  figure  of  a  woman  in  black.  She  was 
old  and  a  little  bit  of  a  creature,  with  the  frame 
of  a  mere  child.  Her  clothes  were  of  poor  quality 
but  were  wonderfully  neat  and  tidy.  She  wore 
an  old-fashioned  bonnet  trimmed  with  stiff, 
white  ruching.  Her  hands  were  ungloved  and  they 


"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  ma'am? "  asked  Kearney,  half 
turning  from  his  plate.  Page  29. 


THE   QUARRY  29 

showed  small  and  thin  and  heavily  veined.  Her 
face  was  very  pale  and  in  her  faded  eyes  was  a 
light  of  dreadful  anxiety. 

"  Does  Mr.  Kearney  live  here? "  she  asked 
very  softly. 

"  Yes;    I'm  Kearney,"  replied  the  detective. 

"  Come  in,  ma'am,  won't  ye,  and  have  a  seat?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Kearney,  leaving  her  chair  and  going 
to  the  visitor. 

The  little  old  woman  entered  and  sat  on  the 
edge  of  a  chair  offered  her. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  ma'am?"  asked 
Kearney,  half  turning  from  his  plate. 

"  You  can  do  everything  for  me,  sir,"  she 
replied,  with  a  quaver  in  the  sound  of  every  word. 
"  I've  come  for  my  boy  Jim  —  Jim  Montgomery. 
He's  in  trouble.  I  just  heard  of  it  through  the 
papers." 

A  wave  of  pity  flooded  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Kear- 
ney as  she  looked  from  the  pathetic  little  mother  to 
her  big-boned,  stolid  son. 

Kearney's  jaw  dropped  and  the  knife  and  fork 
fell  from  his  hands.  He  turned  cautiously  and 
took  a  sly  look  at  the  face  of  the  mother  of  his 
quarry.  He  saw  that  she  was  a  woman  of  refine- 


30  THE   QUARRY 

ment  and  not  of  the  vigorous,  assertive,  inde- 
pendent, motherly  type  of  the  East  Side.  Her 
dress  and  her  comportment  told  him  that  she  had 
come  from  the  country. 

"  I  would  have  been  here  sooner,"  she  explained, 
"  but  I  live  on  the  other  side  of  the  Hudson,  you 
see,  near  Nyack,  and  I  did  not  know  what  had 
happened.  I  thought  my  Jim  was  hunting  a 
job  in  the  city,  and  when  I  did  not  hear  from  him 
I  went  into  the  village  to  ask  the  advice  of  some 
of  the  friends  of  my  husband,  who  is  dead 
these  many  years.  I  then  heard  of  my  boy's 
arrest." 

A  little  spray  of  jet  beads  topping  her  bonnet 
trembled  violently  and  flashed  in  the  light  of  the 
gas  above.  After  a  moment  she  regained  control 
of  her  emotions. 

"  Why  didn't  yuh  go  to  see  his  lawyer? " 
asked  Kearney. 

"  I  went  to  the  Tombs  prison,"  she  told  him, 
"  and  they  said  that  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  see 
my  son.  They  did  not  know  the  name  of  his 
lawyer  but  one  of  the  keepers  felt  sorry  for  me 
and  told  me  that  you  knew  all  about  the  case.  He 
got  your  address  for  me." 


THE   QUARRY  31 

Kearney  cursed  the  prison  deputy  for  a  fool  as 
he  pondered  what  to  say  next. 

"  You  ain't  got  any  right  to  be  here  on  this 
case,"  he  said  finally  and  with  irritation  in  his 
voice.  "  And  I  ain't  got  any  right  to  be  talking 
with  you  about  it.  I'm  a  witness  for  the  prose- 
cution. You  must  wait  and  see  your  son's 
lawyer  in  the  morning." 

Mrs.  Kearney  began  clearing  away  the  dishes. 

"  He's  innocent,  sir,"  the  frail  visitor  pleaded 
eagerly.  "  He  has  been  my  support  since  he  was 
a  boy  of  fourteen  and  a  better  son  no  woman  ever 
had.  He  knows  nothing  about  crime,  Mr.  Kear- 
ney. He's  just  a  country  boy.  His  father  was  a 
good  man  before  him,  and  I  brought  him  up  in 
the  fear  of  God.  You've  got  a  good  mother,  sir, 
and  you  c-c-c-an  —  " 

Her  voice  trailed  off  to  nothingness.  The  tears 
came  silently  from  the  faded,  anxious  eyes  and 
the  heavily-veined  little  hands  hid  the  white 
face. 

"  What  can  I  do,  ma'am?  "  demanded  Kearney 
sharply.  "  I'm  the  chief  witness  for  the  prosecu- 
tion. I  gotta  do  my  duty,  hard  as  it  may  be.  The 
law  tells  me  what  I  gotta  do  and  I  must  do  it. 


32  THE   QUARRY 

If  you  got  witnesses,  bring  'em  to  court  in  the 
morning." 

"  I  have  several  friends  in  Nyack  who  will 
testify  that  my  boy  is  a  good  boy,"  she  sobbed. 
"  They  promised  to  come  to  the  court-house 
to-morrow." 

Kearney  looked  at  his  watch,  pushed  back  his 
chair,  and  reached  for  his  hat  and  coat. 

"  That's  all  I  can  tell  you,  lady,"  he  said,  as 
he  departed  abruptly. 

Mrs.  Montgomery  called  after  him  in  a  thin, 
frightened  voice,  but  if  he  heard  he  did  not  reply. 

She  started  up  from  her  chair  to  leave,  but 
her  strength  gave  out  and  she  sank  back,  sobbing 
bitterly. 

Kearney's  mother  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea  and 
solaced  her  as  best  she  could,  the  tears  flowing 
from  her  own  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

EUGENE  GARRETT,  a  lawyer  of  insignifi- 
cant attainment  at  the  bar  but  with  a 
certain  degree  of  political  influence  in  his 
assembly  district,  was  the  man  chosen  by  the  court 
to  defend  Montgomery.  The  fee  he  would  receive 
from  the  public  treasury  was  a  part  of  his  reward 
for  his  practical  Democratic  industry  in  and  out 
of  season. 

He  was  by  no  means  a  trial  lawyer,  but  he  had 
attained  success  so  far  as  the  gathering  of  money 
counts  for  success  in  life.  His  ruddy,  heavy 
features  always  bore  a  smile,  the  corners  of  his 
lips  having  become  fixed  from  constantly  as- 
sumed geniality.  His  gait  was  of  affected  im- 
portance and  his  attire  was  worn  about  a  huge 
blue-white  diamond  rivetted  in  the  center  of  a 
striped  shirt. 

Garrett  welcomed  the  arrival  of  the  mother 
of  his  client  and  with  the  voice  of  a  dove  as- 
sured the  frightened  little  countrywoman  that  he 


34  THE   QUARRY 

would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  free  her  son. 
He  inquired  very  gently  as  to  her  probability 
of  securing  funds  for  taking  the  case  to  the  higher 
courts  on  appeal,  should  a  verdict  against  him 
be  reached  by  the  jury. 

Aside  from  the  prospect  of  getting  a  fee  from 
her  as  well  as  from  the  court,  the  lawyer  took 
a  genuine  professional  interest  in  the  mother  of 
the  defendant.  He  would  use  her  to  work  on  the 
sympathies  of  the  jury.  She  brought  to  the 
Criminal  Courts  building  three  men  and  a  woman, 
old  friends  from  the  country  about  the  town  of 
Nyack.  All  would  be  willing  character  witnesses 
for  the  accused. 

They  entered  the  court  room  with  the  assist- 
ant district  attorney,  his  witnesses  and  a  flock 
of  men  drawn  as  veniremen.  They  were  hardly 
seated  when  the  door  of  the  chambers  of  the 
presiding  justice  was  opened  by  a  court  attend- 
ant and  a  heavy,  drowsy  man  in  a  black  silk 
gown  strode  across  the  room  and  made  his  way 
laboriously  and  with  much  panting  to  the  dais 
before  a  mural  painting  of  Justice,  flanked  by 
another  of  the  three  Fates.  Every  one  in  the 
court-room  rose  from  his  seat  and  remained 


THE   QUARRY  35 

standing  until  the  justice  was  seated.  The  jus- 
tice arranged  the  folds  of  his  gown,  took  his  seat, 
and  stared  with  deep  reflection  at  a  sheet  of 
perfectly  blank  paper  before  him,  occasionally 
heightening  his  pose  of  dignity  and  importance 
by  making  curlicues  on  the  paper  with  pen  and  ink. 

A  jury  was  quickly  secured  from  the  panel,  and 
twelve  men  who  had  declared  that  they  were  not 
opposed  to  capital  punishment,  that  they  had 
not  rea"d  the  newspapers,  that  they  had  no  opin- 
ions whatever  and  were  perfectly  competent  to 
give  Montgomery  a  fair  trial  and  order  his  life 
snufFed  out,  took  their  seats  in  the  jury-box. 

Had  Garrett  possessed  the  astuteness  and  the 
eloquence  of  a  Bourke  Cockran  or  a  Jerome,  he 
might  have  hoped  to  interest  the  little  group  of 
listless  and  shabby  men  in  the  jury-box.  But 
juries  on  criminal  cases  in  New  York  are  chosen 
from  the  city's  ample  supply  of  mediocrity,  and 
in  consequence  suffer  a  sense  of  affliction  when 
they  behold  it  in  others.  Brilliancy,  though  it 
may  only  flash  in  the  pan,  stirs  their  sluggish 
minds,  and  the  reward  for  the  brilliant  is  rapt 
attention,  knowing  and  appreciative  smiles  and 
favorable  verdicts. 


36  THE   QUARRY 

Then,  too,  juries  on  New  York's  criminal  cases, 
for  the  most  part,  have  long  grown  accustomed 
to  the  guidance  of  the  press.  Although  they 
may  not  read  the  newspapers  and  may  be  sincere 
in  declaring  that  if  they  have  read  them  they 
have  not  formed  an  opinion  that  would  prevent 
their  giving  a  fair  trial,  they  learn  in  some  strange 
manner  that  the  papers  are  lifting  them  from 
obscurity  by  printing  their  pictures  and  their 
names,  and  they  revel  in  the  importance  of  their 
well  advertised  performance  of  civic  duty. 

The  annals  of  New  York's  courts  are  packed 
with  cases  where  hysterical  editorials,  articles 
of  "  human  interest  "  by  special  men  and  women 
writers,  forcing  sympathy  for  murderers  and  mur- 
deresses, have  brought  about  acquittals.  It  is 
a  proud  and  eventful  moment  in  the  life  of  a 
New  York  juror  when  the  shriek  from  the  press 
is  answered  by  his  verdict  of  "  Not  Guilty " 
and  the  acquitted  prisoner  rushes  to  the  jury- 
box  to  wring  his  flaccid  hand. 

But  in  the  case  of  the  People  —  or  the  Police  — 
against  James  Montgomery  there  was  no  outcry 
for  mercy.  There  was  not  enough  of  sordidness 
in  the  crime  to  give  the  public  a  real  thrill.  He 


THE   QUARRY  37 

was  not  of  the  real  murderer's  type,  the  kind  that 
slays  for  selfishness  or  hate.  He  was  not  a  minis- 
ter of  the  gospel  nor  was  he  the  dissolute  son  of 
a  Pittsburgh  millionaire.  His  case  was  devoid 
of  all  the  elements  that  make  murder  fascinating 
to  those  newspaper  readers  who  take  murder-trial 
reports  as  a  part  of  their  intellectual  pabulum. 

The  watchman  of  the  bank  in  the  West  Side 
had  been  cracked  over  the  head  with  an  iron 
instrument.  His  end  was  as  prosaic  as  had  been 
his  birth  and  life. 

There  was  no  crowd  in  the  court-room  as 
Garrett  rose  and  announced  that  the  defense  was 
ready  for  trial. 

Montgomery  sat  with  his  mother  on  his  left 
and  his  counsel  on  his  right.  The  little  band 
of  plain  people  who  had  journeyed  from  the 
country  to  help  the  widow's  son  sat  on  the 
first  bench  behind  the  railing  which  marked  off 
the  space  for  counsel  and  clients. 

The  young  assistant  district  attorney  was 
flanked  on  the  right  by  Kearney,  who  was  there 
to  see  that  the  club  of  the  police  system  descended 
fairly  and  squarely  and  with  every  pound  and 
ounce  of  force  the  written  law  allowed. 


38  THE   QUARRY 

The  policeman  who  had  caught  the  prisoner 
running  away  from  the  scene  of  the  murder  with 
a  kit  of  tools  sat  on  the  left  of  the  prosecuting 
attorney.  Three  other  witnesses  sat  near  them. 
They  were  to  testify  that  on  the  night  of  the  murder 
they  had  seen  the  prisoner  lurking  in  the  Hell's 
Kitchen  section  of  the  city  on  the  North  River 
front.  One  of  these  was  a  stool  pigeon  of  long 
service  to  the  detective  bureau,  a  man  hired  to 
betray  fellow  criminals  and  one  whose  own  crimes 
were  overlooked  because  of  his  usefulness. 

There  was  one  other  witness,  a  man  who  com- 
bined a  knowledge  of  bacteriology  and  chemistry 
with  a  knowledge  of  the  science  developed  by 
Bertillon  —  anthropometry.  Garrett  looked  at 
him  curiously  and  wondered  what  part  he  would 
play  in  the  case.  The  police  had  not  produced 
this  witness  until  the  trial  was  begun.  It  was 
an  old  police  trick,  as  old  as  the  trick  played  by 
Daniel  when  he  cleared  Susanna  and  inaugurated 
the  practice  of  separating  witnesses. 

The  indictment  charging  murder  was  read  and 
the  prisoner  pleaded  not  guilty. 

Where  it  required  three  months  to  bring  about 
a  mistrial  for  the  murderous  young  millionaire 


THE   QUARRY  39 

from  Pittsburgh  in  this  same  vilely  kept  building, 
with  its  horde  of  idling  political  appointees,  it 
required  only  three  hours  to  dispose  of  the  case 
of  this  pale  country  boy  facing  a  hurried  and  im- 
patient judge  and  a  sleepy  jury. 

In  those  three  hours  Kearney,  the  man  from 
headquarters,  had  his  witnesses  present  the  case 
for  the  State.  The  three  men  from  Hell's 
Kitchen  told  of  seeing  the  prisoner  lurking  in  that 
neighborhood.  He  was  in  the  company  of  two 
yeggmen.  The  policeman  who  arrested  him  told 
of  his  attempted  escape  after  the  vault  of  the 
bank  was  blown  with  nitroglycerine. 

Garrett  then  learned  why  the  expert  was  brought 
into  the  case. 

The  expert  qualified  as  such  in  a  brief  direct 
examination.  He  identified  a  heavy,  iron 
wrench  handed  him  by  the  prosecutor  as  one  of 
the  tools  found  in  the  kit  taken  from  the 
prisoner. 

"  You  made  a  careful  examination  of  this 
implement,  did  you  not?  "  asked  the  assistant 
district  attorney. 

"  I  did." 

"  Tell  the  jury  what  you  found  there." 


40  THE   QUARRY 

"  I  found  a  spot  about  two  inches  long  by  a 
half  inch  wide  and  by  laboratory  tests  found  it 
to  be  a  spot  of  human  blood." 

"What  else  did  you  find?" 

"  I  dusted  the  wrench  with  a  white  powder  and 
found  the  prints  of  a  thumb  and  two  fingers." 

The  prosecuting  attorney  placed  the  wrench 
in  evidence  as  Exhibit  A  and  then  offered  as 
Exhibit  B  an  enlarged  photograph  of  the  prints 
found  upon  it. 

"  I  offer  you  for  identification  this  document, 
which  is  the  Bertillon  record  of  the  accused 
taken  at  police  headquarters  following  his  arrest," 
said  the  prosecutor. 

The  expert  examined  it. 

"  What  do  you  find  in  this  record  that  bears 
upon  the  case  before  us?" 

"  The  thumb  print  and  the  prints  of  the  index 
and  middle  fingers  of  the  right  hand  in  this  record 
are  the  same  prints  shown  upon  the  wrench  with 
the  spot  of  blood." 

"  That  is  all,"  said  the  prosecutor,  with  a  smile 
and  an  air  of  triumph. 

He  was  young  and  eager  for  a  record  of  con- 
victions. He  looked  significantly  toward  the 


THE   QUARRY  41 

jurors  as  if  to  say:  "  It  is  now  up  to  you,  gentle- 
men, to  send  the  prisoner  to  the  chair." 

This  trump  card  of  the  police  brought  to 
James  Montgomery  a  realization  of  the  utter 
hopelessness  of  his  plight,  and  his  face  became 
a  chalky  white.  Death  in  the  electric  chair  was 
before  him.  He  was  but  a  boy  and  his  patient, 
old  mother  was  sitting  beside  him,  her  hand  clasp- 
ing his. 

Fortunately  she  could  not  comprehend  what 
was  going  on.  She  had  never  heard  of  the  Ber- 
tillon  system.  She  had  no  realization  of  the 
fact  that  the  police  had  proved  in  court  that  there 
were  indisputable  marks  of  her  boy's  hand  upon 
the  weapon  which  had  felled  the  bank  watchman. 
A  childlike  faith  in  God  and  a  whole  and  perfect 
trust  in  Him  held  her  up  during  the  ordeal. 

Montgomery  choked  back  the  sobs  of  despair 
that  kept  rising  in  his  throat  and  returned  the 
pressure  of  his  mother's  hand. 

The  witnesses  for  the  defense  were  put  on  in 
quick  order.  They  told  in  homely  language  what 
they  knew  of  the  accused.  He  had  been  a  faith- 
ful son  and  the  support  of  his  mother.  He  was 
working  as  an  apprentice  machinist  in  a  factory 


42  THE  QUARRY 

in  Nyack  when  hard  times  caused  the  factory,  to 
close.  Work  was  scarce  and  he  had  left  home  to 
seek  employment  in  the  city. 

The  mother  took  the  stand.  She  turned  in 
the  chair  and  looked  to  the  judge  appealingly, 
as  a  wounded  bird  would  look  up  to  the  bough 
from  which  it  had  fallen. 

"  Face  the  jury,"  the  judge  instructed  her. 

She  looked  at  the  twelve  men  to  her  left  and 
beheld  them  staring  at  her  as  blankly  as  if  she 
had  been  a  piece  of  misplaced  furniture. 

"  Just  tell  the  jury  about  yourboy,"said  Garrett, 
standing  and  twirling  a  heavy  gold  watch-charm. 

"  My  son  was  born  in  the  cottage  in  which  I 
now  live  near  Nyack  —  "  she  began. 

'  You  must  speak  louder,"  the  judge  instructed. 

"  I  can't  hear  a  word  she  says,"  testily  ex- 
claimed the  prosecutor,  "  and  I  doubt  if  Juror 
Number  12  can  even  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice." 

She  started  again  but  her  voice  was  very  faint, 
and  Juror  Number  12  shook  his  head  to  signify 
that  he  could  not  hear. 

"  Raise  your  voice  and  face  the  jury,"  said 
the  court;  "  don't  turn  toward  me." 

Garrett   asked   that   she   be   given    a    glass   of 


THE   QUARRY  43 

water  and  a  court  attendant  hurriedly  supplied 
it. 

She  finally  raised  her  voice  and  told  her  story. 
The  mother-love  sung  in  every  word  she  uttered; 
it  glistened  with  the  soft  light  of  holy  candles  in 
her  faded  eyes,  and  it  fairly  trembled  forth  from 
her  fragile  body  as  she  told  of  the  life  of  her  only 
child  and  of  their  mutual  struggle. 

"  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  my  son  to  harm  any 
one,"  she  started  to  say,  as  her  story  drew  to  a 
close.  The  young  prosecutor  popped  from  his 
chair  as  if  a  powerful  spring  had  been  released 
beneath  him. 

"  I  object,"  he  cried  wrathfully.  "  I  ask  the 
court  to  have  that  remark  stricken  out  as  irrele- 
vant, incompetent  and  immaterial.  It  is  not 
evidence." 

"  Strike  it  out,  Mr.  Stenographer,"  said  the 
court,  with  a  yawn. 

"  No  mother  ever  had  a  nobler  or  better  son," 
resumed  the  witness,  the  little  spray  of  jet  in  her 
bonnet  trembling  violently.  "  I  know  that  he  is 
innocent,  as  innocent  as  I  am  of  this  —  " 

The  prosecutor  was  again  on  his  feet  and  fairly 
shrieking  his  wrath  and  indignation.  His  sense 


44  THE  QUARRY 

of  justice  and  fairness  was  bitterly  outraged. 
The  rules  of  evidence  formulated  in  every  court 
in  the  land  prohibited  expressions  of  mere  opin- 
ion by  a  witness  unless  the  witness  had  qualified 
as  an  expert. 

When  he  recovered  sufficient  composure  to  speak 
with  coherence,  he  asked  the  court  to  instruct 
the  jury  to  disregard  the  comments  of  the  wit- 
ness and  to  warn  her  against  repetition  of  the 
offense. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the  court,  after 
rapping  with  his  gavel,  "  you  are  instructed  to 
pay  no  attention  to  the  remarks  just  made  by  the 
witness.  They  are  not  in  the  nature  of  evidence 
and  they  are  ordered  stricken  from  the  records." 

Mrs.  Montgomery,  during  this  colloquy,  sat 
twisting  her  fingers  together  and  looking  from 
judge  to  jury  and  from  jury  to  judge  as  if  in  the 
hope  that  some  one  would  direct  her  and  help 
her. 

Being  only  the  mother  of  the  prisoner,  her 
frail  body  having  brought  him  into  the  world,  her 
opinion  of  him  had  no  value  in  court.  There  was 
no  place  in  the  trial  for  an  account  of  maternal 
trust  and  love.  Garrett  took  her  from  the  stand, 


THE   QUARRY  45 

the  prosecuting  attorney  declining,  with  an  air 
of  scorn,  to  cross-examine  her. 

The  prisoner  was  then  sworn.  He  had  spent 
nearly  a  month  in  the  Tombs,  waiting  trial,  and 
the  prison  pallor,  the  ghastly  yellow  tinge  that 
would  make  a  saint  look  like  a  convict,  was  upon 
him.  The  spectacle  of  his  little  mother  on  the 
stand  had  shaken  his  nerve,  and  his  hand  trem- 
bled as  he  took  the  Bible  and  made  his  oath. 

Montgomery  stammered  his  story,  often  re- 
peated himself,  made  mistakes  and  corrected 
them.  He  was  hopelessly  rattled.  Several  of 
the  jurors  smiled  knowingly  as  if  accepting  him 
as  a  poor  liar.  His  story  was  simple  enough 
despite  the  havoc  wrought  with  it. 

When  the  factory  closed,  he  left  Nyack  and 
came  to  New  York,  bringing  his  kit  of  tools  with 
him.  He  had  never  heard  of  the  Hell's  Kitchen 
section  and  was  asking  work  along  Tenth  and 
Eleventh  Avenues  because  factories  were  lo- 
cated there.  He  met  a  man  who  seemed  to  take 
an  interest  in  him.  This  man  introduced  him  to 
another  and  they  bought  him  his  supper  at  a 
restaurant  near  the  river.  They  told  him  that 
they  could  get  him  work  but  he  would  have  to 


46  THE   QUARRY 

work  at  night.  They  looked  over  his  kit  of  tools 
and  one  of  them  admired  a  steel  drill  and  said 
it  was  a  fine  one. 

"  After  nightfall,"  Montgomery  told  the  jury, 
"  I  went  with  the  men  a  number  of  blocks  east. 
One  of  them  took  my  tools  and  bade  me  wait 
at  a  corner.  I  was  beginning  to  suspect  that 
something  was  wrong  when  I  heard  a  dull  ex- 
plosion as  if  in  a  cellar.  A  minute  after,  one  of 
the  men  passed  me,  running.  He  dropped  the 
kit  of  tools  and  the  wrench.  My  tools  were  all 
that  stood  between  me  and  starvation.  If  they 
were  lost  I  could  not  hope  to  get  work  at  my  trade. 
I  grabbed  up  the  wrench,  threw  it  into  the  bag, 
and  started  to  run  away  when  I  was  arrested." 

The  cross-examination  furnished  the  young 
prosecutor  with  excellent  practice  in  those  soph- 
istries supposed  to  be  necessary  in  the  practice 
of  law.  The  boy  was  as  wax  in  the  hands  of  the 
questioner  before  him.  He  tried  to  answer  adroit 
questions  he  should  not  have  answered,  and  his 
failure  to  answer  satisfactorily  deepened  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  lying.  After  an  hour  of 
misery  and  bewilderment  he  was  excused  from 
the  stand. 


THE   QUARRY  47 

It  was  noon.  At  one  o'clock  court  would  re- 
cess for  lunch.  With  a  little  expedition  the  case 
of  the  Police  against  James  Montgomery  could 
be  ended  in  time  to  leave  the  afternoon  clear. 
The  court  and  counsel  conferred  in  whispers. 
The  arguments  followed.  They  were  brief.  While 
the  rules  of  evidence  would  not  permit  the  mother 
of  the  prisoner  to  beg  for  his  life  and  proclaim  her 
belief  in  his  innocence,  they  allowed  the  pros- 
ecutor in  his  address  to  the  jury  to  paint  him  as 
a  desperate  young  thief,  crouching  in  the  dark 
with  a  heavy  iron  wrench  uplifted  and  quick  to 
do  murder  for  the  sake  of  loot.  He  had  full 
permission  to  paint  him  as  Gog  and  Magog,  as 
Baal,  as  any  creature  to  be  regarded  with  fear 
and  revulsion. 

The  young  man  with  a  reputation  to  make  was 
forensically  inclined.  He  shouted,  waved  his 
arms,  splashed  on  the  black  paint  and  sat  down 
with  a  glow  within  as  he  told  himself  that  he  had 
done  very  nicely. 

Garrett's  address  was  short  and  weak.  His 
vocabulary  was  that  of  the  money-hungry  law- 
yer who  sits  in  a  hole  in  the  great  city,  shuffling 
bonds  and  mortgages  through  his  fingers  and 


48  THE   QUARRY 

always  nibbling  away  at  the  little  hoardings  of 
ignorant  clients.  His  sense  of  humanity  and 
his  appreciation  of  the  pity  and  horror  of  the 
whole  drama  in  which  he  was  participating  were 
nil. 

The  judge's  instructions  to  the  jury  were  a 
string  of  empty  words,  mouthed  hurriedly  and 
tonelessly. 

As  the  hands  on  the  marble-faced  clock  in  the 
court-room  showed  the  hour  of  one,  the  jury 
was  sent  out  to  lunch  with  instructions  to  deliber- 
ate on  a  verdict  immediately  after  the  meal. 
The  court  system  gave  the  jurors  a  full  day's  pay 
and  the  price  of  the  lunch.  They  were  satisfied. 
They  would  have  full  stomachs,  full  fee  and  a 
free  afternoon. 

At  two  o'clock  the  twelve  men,  with  twelve 
toothpicks  conspicuously  displayed,  filed  into 
the  jury  room  and  took  one  ballot  only  to  decide 
the  fate  of  the  prisoner. 

The  case  was  entirely  circumstantial.  There 
was  one  way  to  avoid  the  risk  of  sending  an  in- 
nocent man  to  his  death  in  the  electric  chair. 
They  took  it. 

In    court    once    more,    the    clerk    ordered    the 


THE   QUARRY  49 

prisoner  to  stand  and  face  the  jury  and  the  jury 
to  look  upon  the  prisoner. 

"  Gentlemen,  have  you  reached  a  verdict? " 
asked  the  clerk. 

"  We  have,"  replied  the  foreman. 

"  What  is  your  verdict?  " 

The  foreman  pulled  a  slip  of  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  read : 

"  We,  the  jury,  find  the  defendant  guilty  of 
murder  in  the  second  degree." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  country  people  who  had  journeyed  to 
the  metropolis  to  do  what  little  they  could 
for  the  widow's  son  took  Mrs.  Montgomery 
back  with  them.  What  little  brightness  of  hope 
had  been  within  her  during  the  trial  of  her  boy 
vanished  with  his  conviction. 

She  had  tried,  the  day  after  the  trial,  to  reach 
the  judge  and  appeal  to  him  for  mercy  and  a 
light  sentence,  but  the  importunings  of  widows, 
wives  and  children  are  avoided  by  the  judiciary 
as  much  as  possible.  The  legal  representative  of  a 
great  banking  institution  or  some  mighty  estate 
or  corporation  has  the  open  sesame  to  the  chambers 
of  the  men  wearing  the  ermine,  but  there  is  not 
such  a  great  number  of  these  and  the  poor  are 
a  mighty  multitude. 

The  meek  and  the  humble  are  referred  to  the 
written  and  legally  canonical  opinions  of  Mr. 
Justice  Brown,  Mr.  Justice  Black  and  Mr.  Justice 
Green.  There  is  but  little  if  any  room  in  a  court 


THE   QUARRY  51 

of  justice  for  the  old  belief  taught  by  the  prophets 
and  by  the  Young  Man  out  of  Nazareth,  that 
the  mercy  of  God  endures  forever.  Penalties 
are  explicit.  The  judge  must  sentence  because 
the  makers  of  the  statutes  have  decided  that 
such  and  such  is  a  crime,  and  that  such  and  such 
is  the  penalty  for  the  crime,  and  these  makers  of 
law  are  legislators,  the  bribery  and  exposure  of 
whom  are  every-day  occurrences. 

At  every  turn  the  mother  of  James  Mont- 
gomery met  with  an  obstacle.  She  had  no  "  Big 
Mike  "  This  or  "  Little  Mike  "  That,  with  political 
power  enough  to  make  a  judge  tremble,  back  of 
her.  The  judge  before  whom  her  son  was  con- 
victed was  hedged  about  by  retainers,  coarse, 
blue-nosed,  officious  clerks,  bailiffs  and  other 
attaches  appointed  to  well-paying  jobs  from 
various  assembly  districts. 

She  had  no  money  with  which  to  allay  the 
itching  of  the  palms  of  petty  grafters  who  would 
sell  the  righteous  for  silver  and  the  poor  for  a  pair 
of  shoes,  as  they  have  been  doing  since  Isaiah's 
time.  To  such  guardians  of  the  privacy  and  the 
sanctity  of  the  administrators  of  the  law,  Mrs. 
Montgomery  was  but  one  of  many  annoying 


52  THE   QUARRY 

people  trying  to  influence  the  court  with  her 
tears  and  her  sorrows. 

At  last  she  turned  away  and  suffered  herself 
to  be  taken  back  to  the  little  cottage  out  in  the 
country.  A  month  before  she  had  been  a  sprightly 
old  lady,  quick  of  step,  delighted  with  every  house- 
hold task,  and  always  rinding  her  reward  in  the 
pride  that  a  mother  takes  in  a  good  son.  But 
in  the  city  she  had  found  the  waters  of  Marah  and 
the  city's  system  had  forced  her  down,  down, 
down  to  drink  of  them. 

Her  little,  old  limbs  became  heavy,  her  tiny 
face  whiter  than  the  untouched  scroll  of  Judg- 
ment before  sin  and  sorrow  had  ever  come  under 
heaven,  and  her  heart,  her  good,  gentle,  tender, 
compassionate  heart,  was  turned  to  lead. 

A  week  after  her  departure  her  son  was  taken 
from  his  cell  in  the  Tombs  and  over  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs  to  the  Criminal  Courts  building  to  be 
sentenced. 

The  boy  stood  up  when  the  clerk  bade  him.  He 
heard  the  question  asked  whether  there  was  any 
reason  why  the  penalty  of  the  law  should  not  be 
exacted  from  him.  He  could  think  of  nothing  to 
say  save:  "  I  am  innocent." 


THE   QUARRY  53 

The  formula  of  sentence  was  mumbled  by  the 
judge  and  an  officer  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  away. 

As  they  reached  the  bridge  over  Franklin  Street, 
connecting  the  Tombs  and  the  court  building, 
and  the  sunlight  from  the  square  windows  struck 
upon  them  for  a  moment,  Montgomery  asked  his 
keeper: 

"How  many  years  did  he  say?  I  could  not 
hear  him." 

The  officer  looked  at  him  uneasily  and  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Is  it  against  the  rules  to  tell  me?"  asked  the 
boy. 

"  No." 

"  What  was  the  sentence?  " 

"  Life  imprisonment." 

Montgomery  staggered  and  the  officer  re- 
leased his  grip  and  caught  him  under  the  arms, 
thinking  that  he  would  faint. 

There  was  a  sob,  hard  and  bitter,  and  then  the 
young  man  cried  as  a  child  would  cry  when  an 
ugly  tempered  servant  took  from  the  nursery 
floor  its  toys  newly  given. 

The  sentence  of  the  court  had  swept  from  him 


54  THE   QUARRY 

the  toys  of  young  manhood  and  had  cast  them 
as  grass  into  the  furnace.  He  would  never  hear 
the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice,  nor  the  sound  of 
laughter  by  man  or  child.  He  would  never  again 
see  the  magic  line  where  sky  and  sea  or  woodlands 
meet.  Even  the  seasons  of  the  year  were  taken 
from  him.  The  beauties  of  nature  familiar  to  the 
eyes  of  a  wholesome  country  boy,  the  spread  of 
smiling  fields,  tasseled  corn  waving  in  the  wind, 
bending  roads,  glimpses  of  the  sunlit  river  through 
foliage,  quiet  little  gardens  in  front  of  quiet  little 
houses,  were  all  taken  from  him  as  if  the  tail  of 
a  comet  loaded  with  cyanogen  had  swept  the 
earth  and  had  wiped  out  all  the  loveliness  that 
God  had  fashioned  for  His  children. 

Within  the  walls  of  Sing  Sing  prison  the  chirp 
of  some  brave  and  friendly  sparrow  might  catch 
his  ear,  perhaps,  but  the  music  of  the  brook  and 
the  wind  in  the  trees,  the  hum  and  thrum  of  in- 
sects on  autumn  nights,  the  calls  and  songs  of 
robin,  thrush  and  lark  and  the  low,  lovestrung 
voice  of  his  patient  mother  would  never  be  his 
again.  Silence  and  gray  walls  and  work  until 
death  were  his. 

As  the  sentenced   prisoners  were  being  taken 


THE   QUARRY  55 

from  the  Tombs  for  the  journeys  to  the  State's 
various  prisons,  Detective  Lieutenant  Michael 
Kearney  sat  in  the  office  of  his  inspector  and  re- 
ceived his  congratulations  for  his  excellent  work 
in  the  Montgomery  case. 

The  inspector  was  gratified.  A  life  sentence 
was  better  than  a  death  sentence,  for  yeggmen 
do  not  fear  death  and  it  is  only  the  dread  of 
long  prison  terms  that  serves  their  profession  as 
a  deterrent.  In  so  far  as  the  care  and  preserva- 
tion of  human  society  went,  Montgomery  was 
better  off  buried  alive  than  buried  dead.  Other 
yeggs  would  think  a  second  time  before  braining 
a  bank  watchman  or  manhandling  a  cop. 

Inspector  Ranscombe  looked  over  his  list  of 
assignments  for  the  day  and  found  nothing  worth 
the  time  and  skill  of  his  favorite  manhunter. 

"  You  have  a  day  off,  Mike,"  he  told  the  de- 
tective. 

Kearney  did  not  relish  this  and  craned  his  neck 
to  scan  the  list  of  assignments. 

"  Nothing  doing,"  laughed  his  chief.  "  You've 
just  got  to  take  a  day  off." 

Kearney  rose,  saluted  and  left  headquarters. 
A  man  absolutely  unappreciative  of  the  ordinary 


56  THE   QUARRY 

pleasures  of  life,  he  found  himself  at  a  loss  what 
to  do.  He  walked  north  to  Fourteenth  Street  and 
loitered  in  that  crowded,  tawdry  highway  between 
Broadway  and  Third  Avenue.  He  read  the 
flamboyant  bills  announcing  the  attractions  of 
cheap  theatres  and  picture  shows  but  he  entered 
none  of  them.  He  found  the  crowds  outside 
more  interesting  and  he  kept  his  keen,  little  eyes 
on  the  alert  for  a  pickpocket  or  some  other  law- 
breaker. 

He  had  no  unfinished  case  on  his  hands.  All 
of  his  men  were  either  in  prison  serving  their 
terms  or  in  the  Tombs  waiting  trial. 

He  thought  of  taking  the  subway  to  Grand 
Central  Station  and  ambushing  a  crook  or  two 
in  the  crowds  there,  but  second  thought  made 
him  decide  that  the  plain-clothes  men  on  duty 
there  would  resent  his  intrusion.  He  abandoned 
this  rather  promising  process  of  recreation. 

There  was  only  one  thing  worth  while  after 
all  on  a  day  off:  his  little  flat  in  Oliver  Street. 
He  took  a  Third  Avenue  Elevated  train  to  Chat- 
ham Square  and  made  his  way  home.  He  rang 
the  bell  in  the  vestibule.  The  lock  clicked  and  he 
entered. 


THE  QUARRY  57 

Kearney  mounted  the  stairs  and  opened  his 
mother's  kitchen  door  without  knocking. 

"Well,  Mike!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kearney  in 
surprise.  "  What  brings  you  home  at  this  time  of 
day?  " 

"  Say,  old  lady,"  he  replied  warningly,  "  you 
want  to  be  careful  about  leaving  this  kitchen 
door  unlocked  and  answering  every  ring  of  the 
bell.  Some  day  a  couple  of  daylight  guys  will 
come  along,  tap  you  on  the  bean  and  clean  out  the 
place.  You  get  me?  " 

"  The  good  Lord  looks  out  f'r  your  mither, 
Mike,"  she  replied,  "  but  ye  didn'  answer  me 
question,  lad." 

"  I  gotta  day  off,"  he  told  her.  "  Ye' re  scrub- 
bing the  kitchen  flure  again.  When'll  you  be 
done?" 

"  Pretty  soon,  Mike.  You  go  in  the  parlor  and 
make  yourself  comfortable  and  I'll  bring  the 
beer  and  your  pipe." 

He  did  as  she  bade  him  and  she  followed, 
clearing  off  a  center  table  and  placing  his  beer, 
pipe  and  tobacco  on  it. 

He  tried  several  chairs.  They  were  all  stiffly 
tufted  —  bought  for  "  company."  He  could 


58  THE   QUARRY 

adjust  himself  to  none  of  them  comfortably. 
He  drank  his  beer  and  looked  about  the  room 
reflectively. 

Various  gewgaws  stuck  on  the  mantel,  the 
heavily  framed  carbon  portraits  of  his  father  and 
mother,  one  of  himself  when  he  was  a  dour  boy 
of  fifteen,  the  spindle  legs  of  the  center  table  and 
the  violently  red  roses  in  the  carpet  were  not  to 
his  liking.  He  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Could  ye  spread  down  some  bagging  so  I  can 
stay  in  here?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sure,  lad,"  she  replied  from  her  knees.  "  I'm 
finished  now." 

She  made  him  comfortable  in  his  old  chair  by 
the  window.  He  was  engaged  in  balancing  him- 
self at  his  favorite  angle  when  he  noticed  some- 
thing black  on  the  end  of  the  kitchen  table. 

"  What's  that,  old  lady?  "  he  asked  curiously. 

The  mother's  face  paled. 

He  reached  over  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  filmy 
and  torn  veil.  Beneath  it  was  a  little  black  fan. 

"  She  forgot  them  —  Mrs.  Montgomery,"  ex- 
plained the  mother,  taking  the  two  articles  from 
the  hand  of  her  son.  "  The  poor,  little  woman; 
the  poor,  little  woman!  " 


THE   QUARRY  59 

She  hurried  with  them  to  her  bedroom,  which 
opened  on  the  kitchen.  When  she  returned  and 
began  shaking  down  the  ashes  in  the  stove,  she 
sighed. 

"  It's  terrible,  Mike,"  she  said.  "  The  poor,  old 
mither  is  left  out  in  the  world  to  starve  or  die 
of  a  broken  heart.  Blessed  Mother  in  Heaven 
look  after  her." 

Some  of  the  cosiness  of  the  room  seemed  to 
leave  it.  Was  there  chill  in  the  air  or  did  he  just 
imagine  it?  He  closed  the  window  back  of  him. 

"  The  evidence  was  all  one  way,"  he  grunted. 
"  I  didn't  try  him.  I  wasn't  the  judge  or  the 
jury.  I  didn't  decide  whether  he  was  guilty  or 
innocent.  That  ain't  my  job.  My  job  is  to  get 
the  evidence  for  the  prosecution.  He  had  a 
lawyer,  didn't  he?  " 

Anger  had  crept  into  his  voice. 

Mrs.  Kearney,  flustered,  busied  herself  further 
with  the  stove. 

"  All  I  said,  Mike,  was  that  I  was  sorry  for  the 
poor  lad's  mither,"  she  protested.  "  He  is  worse 
than  dead  to  her,  f'r  if  he  was  dead  she  could 
go  to  his  grave  of  a  Sunday." 

He  resorted  to  his  beer  bottle. 


60  THE   QUARRY 

The  sun  that  had  burst  through  the  clouds  a 
few  moments  before  once  again  disappeared  and 
the  crisp  scrim  curtains  darkened.  The  rain 
began  to  fall  and  slap  against  the  window- 
panes.  The  bright  fire  in  the  stove  made  the 
room  warm,  but  Mike  Kearney  did  not  feel  at 
ease.  The  wind  rose  and  began  to  skirl  in 
the  eaves  of  the  old-fashioned  Oliver  Street 
house. 

He  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say  that 
would  turn  the  conversation  to  some  more  agree- 
able subject,  but  he  was  a  one-idea  man  and 
there  was  no  fancy  in  him. 

From  the  open  door  of  his  mother's  bedroom 
came  a  soft,  ruffling  sound. 

It  startled  him. 

"  What's  that?  "  he  demanded. 

"  It's  that  divil  of  a  kitten,  Mickey,"  she  told 
him. 

As  if  in  answer  for  himself,  Mrs.  Kearney's 
mouser  rolled  into  the  kitchen,  slapping  and 
playing  with  a  black  object,  the  mourning  fan 
of  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

Kearney  left  his  chair  and  went  to  a  closet, 
taking  down  a  rusty  felt  hat  and  a  raincoat. 


THE   QUARRY  61 

"  I  think  I'll  walk  around  to  th'  Oak  Street 
station  f'r  a  bit  of  gossip,"  he  said. 

"  But  I'll  be  gettin'  lunch  f'r  ye  pretty  soon, 
Mike,"  she  protested. 

"  Naw,  I  guess  I'll  eat  out  f'r  a  change."  With 
a  grunt  of  good-by  he  left  the  flat 

Mrs.  Kearney  went  out  into  the  corridor  and 
listened  fondly  to  his  last  footfall  on  the  stairs. 
When  the  door  below  slammed  behind  him,  she 
went  to  her  bedroom,  found  a  pair  of  silver- 
rimmed  spectacles,  and  sat  down  at  a  kitchen 
window  to  read  from  her  "  Key  of  Heaven." 


CHAPTER  VI 

OF  the  men  sentenced  with  James  Mont- 
gomery, six  were  sent  to  Sing  Sing,  while 
the  others  went  to  Clinton  and  Auburn. 

The  six  Sing  Sing  men  were  manacled  in 
couples,  but  as  Montgomery  was  a  "  lifer,"  ad- 
ditional precaution  against  attempted  escape 
was  taken  by  handcuffing  him  to  a  guard  as  well 
as  to  his  prison  mate.  There  were  three  links 
in  the  chain  of  humanity  and  steel. 

Montgomery  found  that  the  prisoner  locked 
to  his  right  wrist  was  the  heavy,  long-armed 
man  with  the  prognathous  jaw  who  had  sworn 
so  heartily  and  bitterly  the  morning  of  the  line-up 
at  police  headquarters. 

The  six  men  and  their  guards  piled  into  an 
automobile  van  in  front  of  the  Tombs  on  Centre 
Street.  Above  the  clanging  of  the  gong  of  the 
machine  and  the  heavy  roar  of  vehicular  traffic 
as  they  were  taken  toward  Grand  Central  Station, 
Montgomery  could  hear  the  man  beside  him 


THE  QUARRY  63 

keeping  up  a  low  growl,  as  of  a  beast  dreaming  of 
battle. 

The  poor  lad  who  had  been  felled  by  the  lion's 
paw  reaching  from  Mulberry  Street  accepted  these 
mutterings  as  a  protest  against  society.  Terrible 
as  was  his  fate,  he  was  too  young  and  fresh  to  know 
aught  about  ranting  and  cursing.  But  in  his  heart 
he  felt  as  if  he  could  say  "  Aye  "  to  the  bitter 
outpourings  of  the  savage  companion  linked  to 
him.  Had  he  known  the  length  of  this  man's 
sentence  he  might  have  envied  him,  for  he  was 
to  serve  only  fifteen  years.  His  offense  was 
burglary. 

They  boarded  a  train  for  Ossining  at  Grand 
Central  Station.  The  guards  turned  seats  in  the 
smoking-car  so  that  they  could  face  their  prison- 
ers. The  man  in  charge  of  Montgomery  slipped 
his  steel  leash  for  the  journey  and  sat  opposite  him 
and  the  fifteen-year  man. 

At  Tarrytown,  where  the  electric  zone  ended, 
the  train  was  delayed  while  an  engine  was  coupled 
to  the  coaches.  Here  the  tracks  run  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  Hudson,  the  river  splashing  the  'ties 
during  high  winds  from  the  west. 

Across    the    river   Montgomery    could    see     a 


64  THE   QUARRY 

pretty  cluster  of  houses  half  hidden  in  the  trees. 
It  was  the  village  of  Nyack.  Just  over  the  sky- 
line and  beyond  the  last  peaked  roof,  was  a 
cottage  standing  back  from  the  broad  automobile 
road  which  leads  to  Tuxedo.  Within  that  cottage 
was  the  little  mother  with  the  faded  eyes  and  the 
heart  that  had  turned  to  lead  in  the  Criminal 
Courts  building  in  New  York.  His  eyes  peered 
hungrily  through  the  coach  window.  He  had 
written  to  her  from  the  Tombs.  It  was  a  brave 
letter  of  determination  to  some  day  prove  to  the 
world  that  he  was  innocent  of  the  crime  of 
which  he  had  been  convicted.  He  advised  her 
to  cast  about  for  a  boarder,  so  that  she  could 
keep  the  taxes  paid  on  the  home.  His  father  had 
been  a  Mason  in  good  standing  and  the  Masons 
had  helped  her  before.  They  would  help  their 
dead  brother's  widow  again,  he  told  her.  As  he 
gazed  toward  the  pleasant,  distant  country 
where  his  mother  lived,  he  thought  over  this 
letter  and  prayed  that  some  word  in  it  might 
give  her  courage  to  fight  through  her  natural 
span  of  life.  The  cursing  of  the  burglar  beside 
him  died  down  and  was  finally  replaced  by 
heavy  breathing  which  told  that  he  slumbered. 


THE   QUARRY  65 

The  coaches  clacked  together  and  shivered  as 
the  locomotive  coupled  up. 

The  boy  pressed  his  forehead  against  the 
window-pane  and  feasted  his  eyes  for  the  last 
time  on  the  heavily  wooded  further  shore,  the 
hill-bent  horizon,  the  masses  of  clouds  and  patches 
of  blue  heaven,  the  rippling  expanse  of  water, 
silver-crested  by  a  stiff  breeze  from  the  south- 
west, the  faint  red  tops  of  cottage  chimneys  and 
the  tapering  spires  of  country  churches,  the 
flash  of  white  sails,  and  the  foaming  wake  of  the 
ferry  between  the  opposite  towns. 

One  of  the  strongest  swimmers  among  the 
sturdy  country  boys  about  Nyack,  he  had  swum 
the  river,  a  good  three  and  a  half  miles,  more  than 
once,  and  this  scene  in  all  its  simple  loveliness 
was  old  and  sweetly  old  to  his  young  eyes. 

The  day  held  the  moods  of  a  petulant  and 
pretty  woman.  Patches  of  shadow  chased  patches 
of  sunshine  over  the  hills  and  across  the  bosom 
of  the  Hudson,  strangely  streaking  the  river  with 
bright,  dancing  wave-crests  and  grotesque  and 
almost  baleful  ribbons  of  mourning. 

The  train  paused  at  Scarborough  and  was  off 
again  in  less  than  a  minute.  Suddenly  the  eyes 


66 

of  the  boy  at  the  window  encountered  total 
darkness  and  to  his  ears  came  the  din  of  a  rail- 
road tunnel. 

The  burglar  beside  him  awoke  and  began  to 
mutter  again.  Having  relieved  himself  of  sufficient 
hate,  he  tugged  at  the  wrist  to  which  his  own 
was  chained  and,  in  the  darkness,  said:  "  We're 
here." 

The  short  tunnel  was,  in  fact,  directly  under 
the  entrance  to  Sing  Sing  prison.  In  a  few  seconds 
the  train  cleared  the  tunnel  and  stopped  at 
Ossining  station. 

A  covered  tumbril  was  ready  to  take  them  up  the 
steep  road  from  the  station  to  the  highway  run- 
ning south  and  to  the  prison.  The  team  of 
horses  struggled  upward,  straining  and  panting, 
and,  reaching  the  highway,  stopped  to  blow. 
The  convicted  men  had  a  few  more  precious 
moments  in  which  they  could  feast  their  eyes  with 
glimpses  of  sky,  river  and  hills  through  the  open 
front  and  rear  of  the  vehicle. 

The  road  they  were  on  was  the  main  artery 
of  travel  through  the  Cabbage  Patch  of  the 
prison  town.  It  was  lined  with  tumbledown 
cottages  occupied  by  negroes  and  foreigners. 


THE  QUARRY  67 

But  as  battered  and  as  leaky  as  was  the  worst 
of  the  shanties,  there  was  a  tiny  flower  garden, 
a  patch  of  growing  vegetables,  sometimes  a 
chicken  yard,  and  always  children  and  the  wide 
arch  of  sky  overhead  for  each. 

At  the  end  of  the  road  loomed  a  barracklike 
building  of  gray  stone,  fast  blackening  with  the 
years.  It  was  the  first  of  the  prison  structures 
and  about  it  ran  a  high  and  wide  wall.  At  reg- 
ular intervals  upon  this  wall  were  little  octagonal 
sentry  houses  and  in  each  of  these  stood  a  man 
with  a  rifle.  The  building,  rising  high  above  the 
wall,  had  narrow  slits  in  its  sheer  stone  sides  and 
these  slits  were  criss-crossed  with  steel  bars. 

Within  this  structure  a  cell  awaited  Mont- 
gomery. It  would  be  his  resting  place  at  night 
after  the  day's  work  in  the  shops  of  the  walled 
city  of  silence,  sorrow,  sweat  and  celibacy.  Of 
the  outside  world  he  would  see  only  a  patch  of 
sky  squared  by  the  steel  bars.  He  would  be  as 
the  police  thought  a  yeggman  should  be  —  buried 
alive. 

The  van  stopped  before  the  gray  portals  of  the 
building  and  the  six  convicts  were  lined  up  at  the 
curb.  •  On  either  side  of  them,  in  front  of  the 


68  THE  QUARRY 

administration  building,  stretched  plots  of  well 
trimmed  lawn,  centered  with  beds  of  salvia  and 
geraniums  as  crimson  as  the  sins  of  those  who 
had  gone  their  way  before. 

The  men  lining  the  curb  still  held  that  pride 
which  is  inherent  and  imperishable  in  the  higher 
order  of  animals,  however  evil  may  be  their 
case.  As  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  guards  and 
prisoners  entered  the  building  to  deliver  the  com- 
mitment papers  to  the  warden,  they  clustered 
close  together,  hiding  the  bright  handcuffs  even 
from  those  who  understood  their  plight.  They 
peered  curiously  into  the  shadowy  depths  of  the 
wide-arched  entrance  as  they  waited. 

The  officer  returned  and  the  little  column 
followed  to  the  gateway  south  of  the  main  en- 
trance to  the  building.  They  entered  and  the 
gate  closed  upon  them  as  they  began  to  pay  the 
penalty  exacted  by  the  law. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY  was  stripped  of  his 
clothes  and  finally  stripped  of  his  name. 
Both  were  thrown  away.  He  became  Num- 
ber 60,108. 

He  stood  naked  under  the  examination  of  the 
prison  physician  and  was  then  placed  under  a 
shower  bath  and  washed  clean.  Garments  made 
by  convicts  were  given  him,  ill-fitting  underwear, 
heavy  shoes  and  a  dull  gray  suit  of  baggy  trousers 
and  almost  shapeless  jacket.  He  noticed  that 
on  the  left  sleeve  of  his  coat  there  was  a  white 
disc.  He  was  questioned  by  a  deputy  warden 
and  replied  that  he  could  read  and  write  and 
that  he  had  been  through  the  public  school  at 
Nyack.  He  told  the  deputy  that  he  was  an  ap- 
prentice machinist.  He  was  reported  to  the 
foreman  of  the  machine  shop  as  available  material 
for  his  force. 

Montgomery  was  struck  by  the  quiet  of 
the  prison.  There  was  no  sound  of  voices.  Con- 


70  THE  QUARRY 

victs  came  and  went  or  busied  themselves  in 
groups  over  prison  tasks  but  they  did  not  con- 
verse. He  was  informed  that  the  rule  of  silence 
was  strictly  enforced  and  that  he  might  talk 
only  at  the  close  of  work  and  when  he  was  in  his 
cell.  He  was  of  a  taciturn  nature,  but  when  he 
thought  that  the  rule  of  silence  would  obtain 
through  his  whole  lifetime,  the  thing  became 
appalling.  He  had  the  privilege  of  a  cell  by 
himself  or  with  a  cellmate.  For  the  sake  of  the 
human  voice  he  would  hear  in  the  morning  before 
work  and  at  night  after  work,  he  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  share  a  cell. 

The  fifteen-year  man  made  the  same  request 
and  the  old  burglar  and  the  country  boy  became 
cell  companions. 

They  separated  for  the  time  being.  Number 
60,108  was  sent  to  the  machine  shops  and  turned 
over  to  the  convict  foreman,  who  questioned 
him  and  tested  him  as  to  the  value  and  use  of 
many  tools  and  who  found  him  worthy  and  well 
qualified  for  a  place  on  his  staff.  The  burglar 
needed  no  examination  of  that  sort.  He  had  been 
through  it  all  before.  He  was  given  the  working 
tools  of  his  craft  and  began  cutting  garments  with 


THE   QUARRY  71 

other  prisoners,  who  gave  him  looks  of  recog- 
nition and  signalled  greetings  with  their  fingers 
in  the  deaf  and  dumb  code  or  clicked  out  tele- 
graphic messages  in  the  Morse  with  their  scissors. 

The  midday  meal  in  the  mess  hall  was  choked 
down  by  Montgomery  with  a  mighty  effort.  His 
interest  in  machinery  kept  him  from  breaking 
down  during  the  afternoon.  After  the  evening 
meal,  he  was  marched  to  his  prison  tier  with  a 
battalion  of  convicts  and  a  guard  showed  him  his 
cell.  He  found  the  fifteen-year  man  already 
there. 

Every  cell  on  the  tier  was  a  busy  phonograph 
by  this  time,  for  the  rule  of  silence  was  now 
suspended  and  the  men  could  talk  all  they  pleased 
in  the  cells  or  from  cell  to  cell.  When  the  chatter 
became  a  babel  of  sound,  a  guard  warned  those 
talking  loudest  and  the  roar  would  die  down. 

"  Well,  what  you  in  for  and  for  how  long?  " 

The  country  boy  turned  to  the  questioning 
burglar.  "  I  was  convicted  of  murder.  I  am  in  for 
life." 

The  burglar  grunted  and  scanned  the  face  of 
his  cellmate  closely. 

"My   name's    Bill  —  Bill    Hawkins,"  he  said. 


72  THE  QUARRY 

"  I'm  in  for  burglary.  You're  green.  I'll  put 
you  next  to  things." 

Bill  was  eager  to  talk  and  paused  for  a  moment 
as  if  considering  the  line  of  conversation  or  mon- 
ologue he  would  indulge  in. 

"  You  got  the  white  disc,"  he  began  finally. 
"  If  you  keep  it,  they'll  let  you  have  newspapers 
and  eats  and  tobacco.  It's  the  first  term  disc. 
Mine's  red.  This  is  my  third  trip.  Second  term 
men  wear  a  blue  disc.  As  soon  as  any  one  of  us 
violates  a  regulation,  off  goes  the  disc,  Kid,  and 
you'll  never  win  it  back.  Get  that?  " 

Montgomery  nodded. 

The  burglar  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  lower  bunk, 
crouching  so  that  his  head  was  free  from  the 
upper.  Bill  saw  that  the  boy  was  interested  and 
continued,  moodily  and  reflectively. 

"  There  was  one  guy  kept  the  white  disc  for 
thirty  years,"  he  said.  "  He  killed  a  man  in 
Brooklyn  and  was  in  for  life,  just  like  you.  He 
never  broke  a  single  rule  all  that  time.  Each 
year  he  got  a  white  chevron  and  at  the  end  of 
each  five  years  a  white  star  in  place  of  the  chev- 
rons. He  was  a  wonder.  We  called  him  '  The 
Saint '  and  *  Dago  John.'  Rugini  and  his  gang 


THE  QUARRY  73 

called  him  *  II  Santo '  in  their  language.  It's 
hard  to  keep  the  disc  for  a  month,  Kid,  believe 
me.  I  tried  it  when  I  first  come  in.  But  the 
Saint  he  kept  it  thirty  years.  As  he  was  in  for 
life,  he  couldn't  get  no  commutation  and  so  one 
day  a  new  prison  superintendent  asked  him  why 
he  kept  piling  up  all  the  good  marks.  He  told 
the  supe  that  he  wanted  to  die  outside  and  was 
hoping  for  mercy.  He  wasn't  such  a  fool  after 
all,  for  they  turned  him  out  in  time  and  none  of 
us  saw  his  funeral." 

Thirty  years  of  perfect  prison  conduct  so 
that  he  might  die  as  a  human  being  that  God 
had  created  and  not  be  wiped  out  as  a  number 
from  a  board!  Montgomery  was  shocked  and 
thrilled  by  the  brief  story. 

Bill  explained  that  after  a  year  of  perfect  con- 
duct he  would  be  given  a  white  chevron  to  add 
to  the  disc  and  it  would  entitle  him  to  write  a 
letter  once  every  two  weeks,  and  that  once  every 
month  he  might  purchase  little  articles  for  his 
comfort. 

"  But  you  can't  slip  'em  along  to  any  of  your 
friends,"  he  said.  "  If  you  do  and  they  catch 
you,  it  is  good  night  for  the  white  disc  and  the 


74  THE  QUARRY 

chevron  and  all  the  good  marks  that  would 
count  for  a  commutation  man." 

After  four  years  of  perfect  conduct  marked 
by  the  disc  and  four  white  chevrons,  Bill  ex- 
plained, he  would  be  allowed  to  receive  visits  from 
friends  once  a  month,  could  write  a  letter  once  a 
week,  could  receive  a  box  of  cooked  food  every 
three  months  from  home  —  if  he  had  a  home  — 
and  could  take  a  newspaper  and  keep  it  for  two 
days  on  a  stretch. 

For  these  instructions  the  boy  thanked  his 
cellmate  simply. 

"  Don't  call  me  Mister  Hawkins,"  protested 
Bill.  "  Call  me  Bill.  This  ain't  any  place  for  the 
mister  business." 

Bill  had  gradually  loosened  his  clothes  as  he 
talked.  He  was  now  ready  to  retire.  Mont- 
gomery saw  him  lift  his  long,  powerful  arms  and 
take  hold  upon  the  edge  of  the  upper  pallet. 
Without  touching  the  lower  one  with  his  feet, 
he  drew  himself  up  and  swung  into  bed  with  the 
agility  and  ease  of  an  orang. 

"  Good  night,"  he  grunted  from  above. 

Montgomery  prepared  to  retire  and  when  he 
was  ready  to  creep  under  his  blanket  he  knelt  and 


THE   QUARRY  75 

bowed  his  head.  The  cell  lights  had  been  turned 
out.  Hearing  no  sound  from  below,  Bill  leaned 
over  the  edge  of  his  pallet  and  peered  into  the 
checkered  shadows  made  by  the  tier  lights  shining 
through  their  bars.  He  saw  the  boy  in  prayer 
and  held  his  peace. 

James  Montgomery  had  started  the  long  tread- 
mill jaunt  to  the  grave  of  a  life  convict.  The  gong 
awakened  him  in  the  morning  and  he  fell  in  line 
outside  with  the  men  of  his  tier,  to  be  counted  and 
accounted  for  in  the  morning  report  of  his  tier 
warden.  The  morning  meal  was  dispatched  in 
silence,  as  prescribed  by  the  rules,  and  he  started 
work  in  the  machine  shops. 

The  careful  training  his  old  mother  had  given 
him  stood  him  in  good  stead.  Every  task  that 
came  to  his  hand  he  did  cleanly  and  quickly. 
He  found  that  the  dreaded  rule  of  silence  was  an 
advantage.  He  had  much  to  learn  about  ma- 
chinery and  could  apply  himself  to  getting  this 
knowledge  without  distraction  of  any  sort.  His 
foreman  found  him  efficient,  steady  in  his  work 
and  willing.  He  promised  to  become  one  of  the 
most  useful  men  who  ever  worked  in  prison  garb. 

The  weeks  passed  into  months  and  the  months 


76  THE  QUARRY 

finally  rounded  out  a  year,  and  Number  60,108 
had  a  white  chevron  sewed  to  his  sleeve  under 
the  white  disc. 

During  the  first  year  he  had  been  as  much  cut 
off  from  the  outer  world  as  if  he  had  gone  down 
to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  with  the  crew  of  a  sunken 
submarine.  Now  he  was  given  pencil  and  paper. 
He  had  earned  the  privilege  of  writing  a  letter. 
His  heart  hungered  for  a  word  from  or  about  his 
mother. 

Resting  a  pad  of  paper  on  his  knee,  he  sat  on 
the  edge  of  his  cot  after  the  end  of  a  year's  work 
to  write  to  her. 

The  task  was  a  mighty  one.  The  very  be- 
ginning of  the  letter  with  the  words,  "  Dear 
Mother "  shook  his  whole  nature.  His  hand 
trembled  violently  and  his  heart  beat  so  fast 
that  he  felt  weak  and  ill.  A  great  sorrow  envel- 
oped him,  so  great  that  it  left  no  room  for  bitter- 
ness or  protest.  Just  the  touch  of  her  dear  hand, 
just  a  glimpse  of  her  dear,  sweet  face  and  the 
sound  of  one  spoken  word  from  her  lips!  Could 
any  boon  under  heaven  be  as  great? 

The  tears  filled  his  eyes  and  fell  upon  the  sheet 
of  paper.  He  turned  from  the  task.  The  stretch 


THE  QUARRY  77 

of  hopeless,  barren  years  for  both  of  them  was 
before  his  mind's  eye.  He  threw  himself  on  his 
cot  and  sobbed. 

His  burglar  cellmate  moved  about  uneasily, 
not  knowing  what  to  say  or  do  in  the  presence 
of  such  distress. 

"  Say,  Kid,"  he  said  at  last,  "  get  a  strangle 
hold  on  the  job.  Don't  let  it  floor  you.  Don't 
be  taking  the  count,  old  fellow.  Gimme  a  chance 
and  I'll  write  the  letter  for  you,  if  you  tell  me 
how  to  spell  the  words  right." 

Montgomery  felt  the  kindness  and  humanity  in 
the  offer.  He  pulled  himself  from  the  cot  and 
turned  to  him.  If  the  burglar  did  have  the  jaw, 
the  brow  and  arms  of  a  gorilla  and  if  he  was  a 
menace  to  society,  there  was  yet  within  him  that 
element  which  makes  even  the  worst  of  us  at 
times  partake  of  the  divine  in  human  existence. 

"  I'm  all  right  now,  Bill,"  said  the  boy.  "  Thank 
you.  I  just  lost  my  nerve  for  a  minute.  I  want 
to  write  my  mother  and  I  didn't  know  what  to  tell 
her." 

"Tell  her?"  echoed  Bill.  "Why,  there's  lots 
to  tell  her.  Tell  her  about  the  white  disc  you  still 
got  on  your  arm  and  about  the  white  chevron. 


78  THE  QUARRY 

Tell  her  you're  the  best  boy  in  the  Sunday-school 
and  always  know  your  lesson.  Tell  her  that  every 
time  you  get  a  white  stripe  there's  something  doing 
for  a  big,  fine  record  and  that  after  awhile  they 
will  let  you  out  for  being  so  good." 

The  suggestion  was  a  worthy  one.  He  would 
tell  her  all  of  this,  as  the  practical  sense  of  the 
old  burglar  had  advised.  He  would  tell  her  also 
of  his  advance  in  his  craft,  of  the  new  tools  he  had 
learned  to  use,  of  the  machinery  he  was  already 
building  and  repairing,  and  of  his  plans  for  per- 
fecting mechanical  devices.  He  would  draw  a 
picture  of  inventions  he  had  in  mind  and  that  he 
would  have  patented,  of  the  fortune  that  he  would 
make  some  day,  and  of  the  spending  of  that  for- 
tune to  gain  his  liberty  and  prove  his  innocence. 

"That's  the  stuff,  Kid,"  exclaimed  the  de- 
lighted old  burglar.  "  You're  bound  to  put  it 
over  on  them  yet.  You  got  brains.  The  warden 
will  help  you  get  your  patent  and  there's  plenty 
of  lawyers  in  this  place  to  draw  up  the  applica- 
tions. Before  you  know  it  you  will  have  money 
rolling  in  on  you  and  with  money  you  can  do  any- 
thing in  this  world.  You  can  buy  political  in- 
fluence enough  to  get  a  pardon.  Go  to  it,  son, 


THE  QUARRY  79 

and  make  the  old  lady  think  that  you'll  soon  be 
out  and  be  a  rich  man,  too." 

The  boy  started  his  letter  again  and  wrote  until 
the  signal  sent  them  to  their  cots  with  lights  out. 

In  the  morning  Bill  was  ready  with  more  sug- 
gestions. 

"  If  I  could  stomach  all  these  rules  like  you," 
he  said,  "  I  wouldn't  serve  half  my  term,  believe 
me.  Once  they  get  to  trusting  you,  they  watch  you 
less.  You  come  and  go  like  a  trusty  and  then  some 
day  you'll  see  your  chance  for  a  getaway  and  off 
you  go.  And  if  you  ever  get  a  start,  all  you  got 
to  do  is  to  beat  it  over  the  river  to  the  West  Shore 
tracks  and  hop  a  fast  freight  for  the  Hackensack 
meadows.  You'd  be  as  safe  there  as  in  a  jungle. 
If  the  mosquitoes  don't  eat  you  alive,  you  can 
take  your  time  and  as  soon  as  you  get  a  coat  and 
a  pair  of  pants  you're  all  right." 

'  You  mean  try  to  escape?  "  asked  Montgomery. 

"  Sure,"  replied  Bill.  "  Why  not?  You're  in 
for  life  and  they  can't  add  nothing  to  your  sen- 
tence." 

"But  the  pardon?" 

'  You  might  have  to  wait  fifty  years,"  said 
Bill,  "  and  what's  the  use  of  getting  out  then? 


80  THE  QUARRY 

You  would  starve  to  death.  When  the  time  comes, 
I'll  lend  you  a  hand,  Kid.  There'll  be  a  way  of 
slipping  you  a  little  money  and  getting  clothes 
for  you." 

Montgomery  felt  a  curious  little  thrill  of  pleasure 
at  the  suggestion. 

The  burglar  was  watching  him  closely  and  to 
his  heavy  features  came  a  look  of  satisfaction 
as  he  realized  that  the  boy  had  taken  hold  of 
the  idea. 

"  There's  lots  of  time,  lots  of  time,"  he  warned. 
"  Don't  be  in  any  hurry.  Just  keep  at  your  job, 
but  all  the  time  keep  your  eyes  skinned  for  the 
chance.  It  will  come  some  day,  sure." 

Into  the  solemn,  brown  eyes  of  the  boy  there 
came  the  sparkle  of  hope.  Already  he  pictured 
himself  far  off  in  some  distant  country,  starting 
life  under  another  name.  He  would  make  a  good 
living  wherever  machinery  was  used.  He  was 
already  an  expert  mechanic  and  in  a  few  years 
his  inventive  mind  would  develop  and  he  might 
turn  out  improvements  that  might  mean  a  fortune 
to  him.  With  money  he  could  secretly  prosecute 
a  search  for  the  man  who  had  killed  the  night 
watchman  of  the  bank.  His  name  would  be 


THE  QUARRY  81 

cleared  and  he  could  step  in  the  open  once  again 
and  live  the  life  God  had  intended  him  to  live. 

"  You're  only  a  kid,"  said  Bill,  as  they  pre- 
pared to  answer  the  mess  call  for  breakfast. 
"  Mind  what  I'm  telling  you.  Take  your  time. 
You  can  afford  to  wait  five  years  yet,  if  necessary." 

"  I'll  be  careful,"  whispered  Montgomery. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NUMBER  60,108  began  to  count  the  hours 
and  days  to  the  probable  moment  when 
he  would  receive  an  answer  to  his  first 
letter  from  prison. 

His  home  was  hardly  more  than  twelve  miles 
away  from  Sing  Sing  but  it  was  across  the  river  and 
well  out  in  the  country.  It  would  depend  upon 
the  rural  system  for  its  delivery.  As  it  traveled 
on  its  way,  he  let  his  mind  follow  it  with  many  ten- 
der and  yet  distressing  thoughts  of  her  who  would 
receive  it. 

How  had  she  stood  the  shock,  the  sorrow  and  the 
shame  of  his  conviction?  He  knew  that  she  fully 
believed  in  his  innocence,  but  it  was  more  than 
probable  that  in  and  about  Nyack  there  were 
scores  of  people  who  would  say  that  the  vaunted 
Bertillon  system  could  not  lie  and  that  the  print 
of  his  finger  on  the  blood-stained  wrench  was 
surely  a  stamp  of  his  guilt. 


THE  QUARRY  83 

There  would  be  unkind  people  who  would  seek 
to  avoid  further  acquaintance  with  the  mother 
of  a  young  man  convicted  of  brutal  murder  for 
the  sake  of  robbery.  But  there  would  be  kind 
people  also,  such  as  had  journeyed  to  the  city  to 
testify  for  him.  With  these  conflicting  thoughts 
he  went  about  his  work  in  the  machine  shop  with 
constantly  increasing  nervousness  and  anxiety. 

Two  days  passed  and  the  looked-for  letter  came. 
It  was  delivered  to  him  O.  K.'d  by  the  deputy  in 
charge  of  the  correspondence  department.  He 
studied  the  handwriting  on  the  envelope.  It  was 
not  in  the  old-fashioned  script  of  his  mother,  and 
his  hands  shook  as  he  drew  forth  the  letter  and 
unfolded  it. 

He  glanced  at  the  signature  and  read  the  name 
of  Margaret  Wadhams,  a  friend  and  neighbor  of 
his  mother.  She  wrote  that  his  mother  had  been 
very  ill  and  that  her  eyesight  was  failing  rapidly. 
She  could  not  see  well  enough  to  write  and 
had  asked  Miss  Wadhams  to  do  the  writing 
for  her. 

"  She  tells  me  to  write  you  only  a  bright  letter," 
wrote  Miss  Wadhams,  "  but  I  think  it  is  my  duty 
to  tell  you  that  your  dear  mother  has  broken  very 


84  THE  QUARRY 

rapidly  and  I  believe  that  she  has  not  many  more 
days  to  live.  Her  heart  was  crushed  by  the 
blow  that  fell  upon  you  and  that  was  only  in- 
tended for  you,  James.  She  is  patient  and  prays 
constantly  that  some  day  your  innocence  will  be 
established. 

"  Garrett,  the  New  York  lawyer  who  defended 
you,  wrote  to  her  and  urged  her  to  mortgage  the 
house  and  raise  enough  money  so  that  he  could 
take  an  appeal  to  the  higher  courts.  She  was 
eager  to  do  this,  but  I  prevailed  upon  her  to  see 
Mr.  Westervelt,  the  Nyack  lawyer,  first.  Mr. 
Westervelt  said  that  the  lawyer  was  a  robber  of 
widows  and  the  poor  and  that  he  would  not  let 
her  get  out  of  his  hands  until  she  had  sold  her 
very  clothes.  He  took  up  the  matter  without  a  fee, 
like  the  kind  man  that  he  is,  and  said  that  it  was 
utterly  useless  to  take  an  appeal.  He  said  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  offsetting  the  evidence 
against  you  unless  the  real  slayer  of  the  watchman 
was  found." 

Montgomery  put  down  the  letter  with  a  feeling 
of  great  weariness.  What  hope  he  held  had  been 
nourished,  warmed  over  and  kept  alive  by  day 
and  by  night  because  of  his  mother.  He  wanted 


THE   QUARRY  85 

her  to  live  until  the  red  stain  of  a  murder  charge 
was  taken  from  her  name  and  from  his.  He  did 
not  want  her  to  die  while  he  was  in  prison. 

"  She  keeps  the  clothes  you  wore  when  you  were 
a  little  boy  always  near  her,"  the  letter  continued. 
"  She  has  the  picture  taken  of  you  at  the  county 
fair  and  it  is  a  great  comfort  to  her.  " 

Number  60,108  again  put  aside  the  letter  and 
sat  staring  at  the  steel  wall  of  his  cell  while  he 
fought  to  master  his  emotion.  Bill  Hawkins  stood 
at  the  grated  door,  immovable,  hideous  perhaps, 
but  solemn,  and  in  his  little  eyes  there  was  the 
light  of  uneasiness  that  shows  in  the  eyes  of  a 
dumb  animal  when  it  looks  upon  a  master  suffer- 
ing. 

Montgomery  read  the  last  page.  Miss  Wad- 
hams,  in  her  provincial  way,  had  tried  to  inject 
into  this  sad  missive  a  note  of  cheer.  She  and 
other  friends  would  always  see  that  the  little 
mother  was  all  right.  He  need  never  worry  about 
her  bodily  comfort.  The  flower  garden  was  pretty 
during  the  past  summer,  just  as  pretty  as  it  was 
when  he  left  the  summer  before  to  seek  work  in  the 
city.  The  Williamson  house  next  door  had  been 
sold  and  was  going  to  be  put  in  good  repair. 


86  THE   QUARRY 

Old  Mr.  Williamson,  so  long  a  friend  and  fellow 
lodge  member  with  his  father,  had  died  and  the 
family  was  broken  up. 

He  finished  this  gossip  of  a  well  intentioned 
friend  while  there  pounded  in  his  head  the  fright- 
ening thought:  his  mother  was  nearing  death. 
He  might  never  see  her  face  again,  not  even  for  the 
final  parting  of  son  and  mother. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  frantically  of  trying 
to  break  out  of  prison  and  hurrying  to  her.  If 
he  could  get  a  little  start,  he  could  swim  the  Hudson 
and  make  his  way  home  in  time  to  kneel  beside 
her  bed,  clasp  her  thin  hands  in  his  and  comfort 
her  and  breathe  his  love  to  her  as  she  passed  into 
the  valley  of  the  shadow.  He  glanced  about  him 
as  if  in  the  hope  that  God  would  bring  some  miracle 
to  pass  and  that  the  steel  walls  and  bars  would 
melt  and  the  stone  crumble. 

Bill  had  swung  himself  up  into  his  bunk.  Mont- 
gomery looked  up  and  saw  his  little  eyes  watching 
him  keenly.  His  attitude  was  that  of  a  great 
beast  crouched  for  a  spring  upon  his  prey.  But 
ugly  as  was  the  face  that  hung  over  the  iron  ledge 
above,  there  was  a  strange  softening  of  the  lines, 
a  melting  of  the  features.  There  was  compassion 


THE   QUARRY  87 

illumining  the  countenance  of  this  creature  with 
prognathous  jaw  and  sloping  brow. 

"Trouble  at  home,  Kid?"  he  asked,  his  harsh 
voice  mellowing  with  the  kindly  spirit  that 
prompted  the  question. 

Number  60,108  nodded  his  head.  The  open 
letter  in  his  hands  told  the  tale. 

"  Gee,  I  wish  you  knew  how  to  cuss,  Kid," 
sighed  the  burglar.  "  When  things  come  hard  on 
me  I  get  rid  of  it  all  with  a  good,  long,  healthy 
swear.  It  does  me  an  awful  lot  of  good.  I  learned 
the  art  from  Cockney  Tim  Maddigan,  who's  over 
in  Clinton  prison  now,  doing  three  sixes.  He  could 
certainly  swear.  One  time  down  in  the  old  Gas 
House  district,  I  heard  him  rip  'em  out  so  that 
Scar  Reilley  almost  fainted  with  envy.  I  took 
lessons  from  him." 

The  boy  shook  his  head  but  the  earnestness  of 
his  cell  companion  brought  the  faint  flicker  of  a 
smile  to  his  lips. 

Bill  realized  that  he  had  turned  the  boy's 
thoughts  away  from  his  bitter  introspection  for 
the  moment  at  any  rate  and  he  followed  up  the 
good  work. 

"  They  used  to  call  me  '  Roaring  Bill  'Awkins,'  " 


88  THE  QUARRY 

he  went  on.  "  Being  as  you  don't  know  how  to 
swear  artistic  and  satisfactory,  I'll  just  swear  for 
you.  No,  don't  object.  I'll  think  'em  to  myself 
and  not  say  a  thing  out  loud." 

He  swung  down  from  his  high  pallet. 

There  was  still  a  half  hour  before  the  lights 
would  be  cut  off  and  this  was  the  best  possible 
time  for  violating  prison  regulations. 

"  You  stand  at  the  door  and  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out, Kid,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  take  a  peek  at  this 
newspaper  you've  won  by  good  conduct." 

The  first  newspaper  that  had  reached  their  cell 
lay  unfolded  on  Montgomery's  bed. 

Bill  turned  his  back  to  the  door  as  the  boy  stood 
guard  and  hungrily  read  the  headlines,  scanned  the 
illustrations  and  revelled  in  a  luxury  he  had  not 
earned. 

The  discovery  of  this  violation  by  a  guard  would 
have  cost  Montgomery  his  white  disc  and  the  loss 
of  forty-five  marks.  He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when 
the  lights  went  out  and  Bill  could  no  longer  im- 
peril the  disc  and  chevron  on  his  sleeve. 

The  boy  was  half  asleep  when  Bill  leaned  over 
the  edge  of  his  resting  place  and  whispered: 
"Kid!" 


THE   QUARRY  89 

Montgomery  rose  on  his  elbow  and  whispered 
back  that  he  was  listening. 

"  I  got  a  scheme  that's  a  wonder,"  Bill  told  him. 
"  You  know  what  I  told  you  about  getting  a  suit 
of  clothes  for  the  getaway?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  got  it  all  doped  out." 

"  How  will  you  manage  it?  " 

"  Never  mind."  He  chuckled  under  his  breath. 
"  And  as  for  a  hat!  Say,  Kid,  I  can  get  any  kind 
of  a  hat  you  want  to  wear.  But  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  in  the  morning." 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOWEVER  bright  and  sweet  the  outside 
world  may  be  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
every  break  of  day  is  as  twilight  to  the 
prisoners  in  Sing  Sing.  The  little,  barred  slits 
in  the  gray  walls  admit  only  light  enough  to  make 
corridor  and  cell  shadows  deeper  and  more  fan- 
tastic. 

Number  60,108  and  Bill  Hawkins  were  out  of 
their  bunks  before  the  clanging  of  the  bell.  Bill 
grinned  very  knowingly  as  they  pulled  into  their 
baggy  gray  suits.  He  crooked  his  right  index 
finger  and  held  it  before  the  boy. 

"  See  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"   replied   Montgomery,   wondering. 

"  It  is  exactly  one  inch,  that  second  joint.  I'm 
going  to  measure  you  for  your  suit.  Turn  around." 

Montgomery  turned,  facing  the  door,  and  Bill 
stepped  behind  him.  He  felt  the  finger  joint  press- 
ing against  his  shoulders,  as  Bill  took  the  dimen- 
sions for  the  piece  of  the  coat  he  was  to  fashion 


THE   QUARRY  91 

surreptitiously.     As  he  worked,  he  explained  his 
scheme  in  a  whisper. 

"  The  color  of  the  cloth  is  all  right,"  he  said, 
"  but  it  is  the  baggy  shape  of  the  coat  and  pants 
that  gets  an  escaped  convict  in  Dutch.  I'll  re- 
member these  measurements  and  swipe  the  stuff 
and  cut  it  in  the  shop.  I'll  do  one  piece  at  a  time. 
In  the  cutting  room  there's  Isaacs,  the  Butcher, 
on  my  right  and  Idaho  Shorty  on  my  left.  They'll 
be  blind.  They  won't  say  a  thing  to  anybody  and 
they  won't  see  a  thing.  I'll  smuggle  in  the  suit 
piece  by  piece  and  swipe  the  basting  stuff,  needles 
and  thread."  He  finished  the  three  dimensions 
of  the  first  piece  of  the  coat  he  was  to  make  and  was 
satisfied. 

"  One  piece  at  a  time,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  When  I  get  'em  all  done,  I'll  sew  'em  together  by 
hand  right  here  in  this  handsome  little  one-room 
flat." 

Montgomery's  experienced  burglar  friend  was 
taking  the  same  interest  in  him  that  a  father  would 
take  in  a  son  at  college  commencement  time. 

"  When  the  suit  is  ready,"  he  told  the  boy, 
"  you're  to  put  it  on  under  your  prison  clothes. 
Then,  when  you  get  on  the  outside,  you  can  peel 


92  THE   QUARRY 

off,  stick  a  hat  on  your  head  and  beat  it."  He 
laughed  softly  to  himself. 

"  And  as  for  hats,"  he  whispered,  "  it's  a  good 
thing  I  didn't  forget  that.  You  couldn't  wear 
that  little  cheese-box  outside,  and  you  couldn't 
go  bareheaded.  Everybody  in  a  crowd  looks 
twice  at  a  bareheaded  man.  But  we'll  have  no 
trouble  about  the  hat.  I'll  get  one  swiped,  an 
old  cast-off  kelly  from  one  of  the  prison  offices." 

The  boy  wondered  at  the  goodness  and  kindness 
that  lay  hidden  in  the  heart  of  this  old  offender 
against  society,  who  looked  almost  a  monstrosity 
and  yet  was  as  gentle  as  a  child. 

"  Just  keep  your  young  noodle  clear,"  advised 
Bill.  "  Don't  be  in  any  hurry.  Whenever  you 
see  a  chance  that  promises,  tell  me  about  it  and 
we'll  talk  it  over.  All  the  time  I'll  be  working  on 
this  suit  and  I'm  going  to  make  a  swell  job  of 
it,  see?" 

"  And  suppose  I  do  get  out,  Bill,"  suggested 
Montgomery,  "  and  I  patent  my  inventions  and 
make  a  fortune;  how  am  I  ever  going  to  repay 
you?" 

"  Well,  I'm  fifty  years  old,  now,"  replied  the 
burglar.  "  When  I  get  out  I'll  be  sixty-five  and 


THE  QUARRY  93 

still  a  burglar,  perhaps.  Mebbe  I'll  be  able  to 
run  in  on  you  somewhere  and  you  can  help  me  keep 
straight,  give  me  a  job,  lock  me  up  at  night  and 
treat  me  like  a  human  being  in  the  daytime.  I 
ain't  been  treated  like  a  human  in  so  long  I've 
clean  forgot  how  it  feels." 

The  old  burglar's  face  clouded  for  a  moment 
and  his  heavy  jaw  clamped  tighter. 

"  Say,  Kid,"  he  said  huskily,  "  never  breathe 
it,  will  you?  I  had  a  boy  of  my  own  once.  He'd 
be  just  your  age  if  he'd  lived.  I  wanted  him  to 
live  and  that's  why  I'm  here.  I  needed  more  money 
than  I  could  make  to  send  him  to  the  mountains 
to  be  cured  of  the  white  bugs  —  the  T.  B.  I  just 
had  to  get  the  money  and  so  I  went  in  on  a  house- 
breaking  job.  Well,  the  boy  didn't  get  to  the 
mountains;  he  died  of  consumption.  The  cops 
got  me  and  I  came  to  this  place  for  my  first 
bit." 

Montgomery  could  say  nothing.  His  heart  was 
filled  with  pity  and  sympathy  for  his  friend. 

"  I  ain't  in  the  habit  of  squealin'  when  I'm 
hurt,"  Bill  went  on  after  a  pause,  "  but  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  if  I  could  have  got  away  with 
the  swag  and  turned  it  into  money  for  that  boy  of 


94  THE   QUARRY 

mine,  I  wouldn't  have  minded  going  up  for  the 
five  years  I  got.  But  one  of  the  gang  hollered  and 
the  bulls  got  all  the  loot.  When  I  got  out  after  my 
bit,  the  boy  was  dead  and  his  mother  was  —  well, 
she  was  worse  than  dead,  they  told  me.  It  ain't 
the  man  who  goes  to  prison  that  does  all  the  suffer- 
ing. It's  his  wife  and  babies  that  take  the  punish- 
ment." 

"  Could  you  find  her  —  your  wife?  "  asked  Bill's 
protege. 

"  Find  her?  "  he  repeated.  "  I  found  where  she 
started  to  join  the  down-and-outs  and  that  was 
enough  for  Bill.  And  she  was  a  good  girl,  too. 
I  didn't  want  to  see  her  finish.  She  had  seen  me 
try  to  steal  and  get  away  with  it  and  saw  what 
happened  to  Bill.  She  was  afraid  to  try  the  same 
game.  The  police  didn't  mind  her  doing  the  other 
thing.  All  she  had  to  do  was  to  give  up  to  the 
cops  a  little  piece  of  change  every  now  and  then. 
I  guess  she  got  to  be  a  regular  —  a  regular  — 
cruiser." 

The  voice  of  Bill  Hawkins  had  become  hollow. 
It  was  as  if  his  share  of  trouble  had  driven  from 
him  every  trace  of  human  emotion  and  feeling. 
But  with  the  last  ugly  word  of  his  brief  narrative 


THE  QUARRY  95 

the  voice  broke  and  Number  60,108  saw  that  his 
hands  trembled. 

"  A  cruiser?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  You  don't  know  what  that  means,"  replied 
Bill.  "  It  means  a  woman  for  sale  on  the  streets." 

Both  were  silent  as  they  finished  preparing  to 
answer  roll-call  and  march  to  the  mess  hall  for 
breakfast. 

"  Bill,"  Montgomery  finally  suggested,  "  per- 
haps if  I  get  out  and  all  goes  well,  I  might  be  able 
to  find  her  and  help  her.  I'd  treat  her  almost  as 
if  she  was  my  own  mother." 

"You  would!"  gasped  the  burglar.  "You 
would,  boy?  " 

"  I  would  be  glad  to." 

"  But  she's  gone  wrong." 

"  It  wasn't  her  fault." 

The  gong  clanged  and  they  stepped  to  their 
cell  door,  as  did  sixteen  hundred  others  in  the 
walled  city  of  silence. 

The  old  burglar  put  a  hand  on  Montgomery's 
shoulder. 

"  Boy,"  he  said,  "  you  got  a  heart  of  gold." 


CHAPTER  X 

TO  put  the  risk  of  detection  at  its  minimum, 
Bill  Hawkins  proceeded  with  his  task 
of  making  the  suit  of  clothes  for  his  com- 
panion's getaway  with  such  caution  that  it  prom- 
ised to  cover  a  whole  year  of  work. 

To  steal  the  cloth,  piece  by  piece,  was  no  easy 
task.  The  eyes  of  the  guards  were  keen  and  there 
were  convicts  who  were  suspected  of  doing  the  work 
of  spies  for  the  prison  officials.  Every  night  for 
a  month  Bill  reported  to  Montgomery  his  efforts 
of  the  day,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  brought 
under  his  blouse  enough  cloth  for  the  first  section 
of  the  suit. 

To  cut  it  in  the  dimensions  he  had  rivetted  in 
his  memory  was  even  a  harder  task.  The  greatest 
care  was  taken  to  prevent  the  theft  of  tools,  and  a 
missing  pair  of  scissors  would  have  resulted  in  a 
search  of  the  cells  of  all  those  who  worked  in  the 
cutting  room.  He  was  compelled  to  cut  the  cloth 
right  under  the  noses  of  the  guards  in  the  cutting 


THE  QUARRY  97 

room.  "The  Butcher"  and  "Idaho  Shorty" 
sheltered  him  as  much  as  they  could  as  he  worked 
furtively  and  quickly,  and,  finally,  after  two 
months,  the  first  piece  of  the  coat  was  made.  It 
was  smuggled  into  the  cell  and  stowed  away  in 
the  mattress  of  Bill's  bunk.  Stolen  needles  and 
thread  were  used  to  sew  up  the  seams  of  the  mat- 
tress again. 

Montgomery  could  have  stolen  a  sharp  knife 
from  the  machine  shop  so  that  Bill  could  work  in 
the  cell,  but  the  old  burglar  would  not  let  him 
run  the  risk.  Discovery  of  such  a  theft  would  have 
meant  the  loss  of  disc  and  chevrons  and  a  transfer 
to  some  other  branch  of  prison  work. 

The  second  autumn  in  prison  passed  into  the 
second  winter  and  Bill  still  stuck  to  his  task. 
Spring  came  and  all  of  the  pieces  for  the  coat 
were  ready  and  in  the  cell,  safely  hidden  away. 
To  assemble  them  Bill  would  have  to  make  every 
stitch  by  hand. 

At  night,  after  the  supper  hour,  the  two  prison- 
ers washed  out  their  towels  and  hung  them  on  a 
piece  of  string  in  their  cell.  Behind  these  the 
burglar  crouched  as  Montgomery  watched  at  the 
door.  He  sewed  until  the  lights  went  out  but  the 


98  THE   QUARRY 

work  was  slow  and  painful.  He  had  no  thimble  and 
one  finger  after  another  was  worked  into  a  pulpy 
condition.  The  making  of  the  coat  took  all  sum- 
mer but  Bill  was  so  interested  in  the  task  that  he 
even  sewed  in  his  bunk  after  the  lights  were  turned 
off,  feeling  every  stitch  in  the  dark  with  raw  fingers 
that  spilled  blood,  but  with  patience  that  never 
flagged. 

Another  year  was  started  and  the  coat  was 
finished.  Bill  stole  the  cloth  for  the  trousers 
which  would  replace  the  tubelike  nether  gar- 
ment of  the  prison  uniform.  With  never  a  word 
of  complaint  and  never  a  sigh  of  fatigue,  Bill 
Hawkins  tackled  the  final  stretch  of  his  self-im- 
posed slavery.  Every  half  hour  during  the  night 
the  tier  guard  made  a  round  of  the  cells,  flashing 
his  hand  electric  light  upon  each  bunk.  Bill  could 
sense  his  coming  and  would  feign  sleep,  with  his 
work  under  his  body,  as  he  reached  his  cell. 

All  the  while  Number  60,108  was  perfecting 
himself  in  mechanical  work.  His  ability  and  in- 
dustry were  fully  appreciated  by  the  deputy 
warden  in  charge  of  the  machine  shop  and  he  ad- 
vanced rapidly  to  the  point  where  he  was  given 
the  more  intricate  tasks,  requiring  delicacy  of 


THE   QUARRY  99 

work  and  much  careful  thought.  His  splendid 
record  for  conduct  also  added  to  the  favors  he 
received  and  soon  he  was  informed  that  he  would 
be  the  man  to  succeed  the  convict  foreman,  when 
he  was  given  his  liberty. 

As  foreman  of  the  shop,  Montgomery  would  have 
a  degree  of  liberty  given  to  few  convicts.  On  busy 
days  he  would  be  exempt  from  roll  calls,  and,  when 
the  care  of  machinery  required  it,  he  could  spend 
his  evenings  in  the  shop.  He  would  superintend 
the  acceptance  and  assembling  of  all  new  machines 
and  parts  of  machines  and  the  disposal  of  the  old. 

The  coveted  white  disc  remained  on  his  sleeve 
and  a  new  chevron  was  added  with  each  year. 

"  We'll  wait  until  you  get  the  job  as  foreman," 
Bill  decided.  "  When  you  take  charge  and  get  the 
hang  of  things,  then  we  can  plan  the  way  out. 
Another  year  or  two  ain't  going  to  hurt  you. 
You  want  to  get  such  a  start,  once  you're  out, 
that  they  won't  close  in  on  you  and  drag  you  back, 
Kid.  It's  worth  waiting  for." 

One  day  Number  60,108  was  called  from  his 
task  and  given  a  new  blouse.  On  the  left  sleeve 
was  a  clean  white  disc  and  under  it,  where  the 
chevrons  had  been,  a  white  star.  This  signified 


100  THE  QUARRY 

that  he  had  served  five  years  with  perfect  conduct. 
That  same  day  the  convict  foreman  went  before 
the  board  of  parole  and  was  allowed  time  off  due 
him  for  his  good  marks  shown  on  the  prison  record. 
He  was  allowed  a  day  for  every  three  marks,  the 
total  being  subtracted  from  his  sentence. 

Montgomery  became  the  foreman  and  took 
charge  of  the  machine  shop  force.  He  was  now 
twenty-six  years  old  and  had  developed  from  a 
scrawny  country  boy  into  a  well-built  and  hand- 
some man.  His  eyes  were  grave  and  his  mien 
serious.  He  appeared  to  be  well  beyond  thirty 
years  of  age. 

During  the  early  part  of  this  fifth  year,  Mont- 
gomery had  begun  to  steel  himself  for  the  news 
from  home  that  would  tell  him  that  his  mother's 
life  was  closed.  She  was  hopelessly  blind,  wrote 
Miss  Wadhams,  and  was  worn  to  a  shadow.  He 
was  ready  for  the  trial  and  knew  that  it  was  at 
hand  when  a  trusty  brought  him  a  black-bordered 
letter  with  an  order  granting  him  permission  to 
retire  to  his  cell  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

He  left  the  machine  shop  and  in  the  quiet  of 
the  deserted  tier  read  the  message. 

'  Your  mother  died  calling  your  name,"  wrote 


THE  QUARRY  101 

Miss  Wadhams.  "  She  seemed  to  behold  your 
face  and  it  appeared  as  if  she  was  talking  to  you. 
She  smiled  very  sweetly,  as  if  there  had  never 
been  a  trouble  come  in  her  life.  She  sighed  and 
her  blind  eyes  closed  forever." 

"  Oh,  mother  I  Oh,  my  mother,  my  mother!  " 
sobbed  the  young  man,  dropping  to  his  knees. 

Bill  found  him  praying  beside  his  cot  when  he 
came  in  at  the  close  of  the  day's  work.  The  black- 
bordered  envelope  in  Montgomery's  hand  told 
him  as  much  as  words  could  tell  him.  He  patted 
his  grieving  companion  on  the  shoulder  as  a 
father  would  caress,  a  son  in  dire  trouble. 

In  the  shelter  of  their  towels,  stretched  across 
the  cell,  he  drew  the  completed  gray  suit  from  its 
hiding-place. 

Montgomery  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  They  put  in  the  new  machinery  this  week, 
Kid,  don't  they?  "  Bill  asked. 

Montgomery  nodded. 

"  And  they  ship  out  the  old  machines?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it's  time  to  make  the  getaway." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  prison   warden   desired   to  install   the 
new  machinery  at  night  so  that  he  could 
save   all   possible  loss  of  actual   working 
time  of  the  convicts.    He  conferred  with  his  new 
foreman    and    Montgomery    declared     the    plan 
feasible.     By   having  crates    and   boxes   built  in 
the    carpentry    division    and    in    readiness,    the 
work  of  shipping   out    the   displaced    machinery 
could  be  rushed  while   the   new   was   being  put 
up. 

The  new  foreman  was  instructed  to  go  ahead, 
make  measurements  for  the  crates  and  have  the 
work  done  and  the  product  delivered  to  him  in  the 
machine  shop. 

The  new  equipment  was  on  the  freight  plat- 
forms at  the  Ossining  station.  All  that  was  neces- 
sary was  to  have  it  brought  to  the  prison  and  in- 
stalled after  the  whistle  blew  for  the  end  of  the 
regular  day's  work. 


THE   QUARRY  103 

Montgomery  busied  himself  with  these  pre- 
liminaries and  among  the  boxes  he  had  constructed 
was  one  about  six  feet  in  length  and  oblong  in 
shape.  It  was  the  coffin  that  would  take  him  from 
a  living  grave  to  the  heaven  of  clean  air,  sunlight 
and  wide  sky. 

He  found  it  necessary  to  make  certain  changes 
in  the  construction  of  this  particular  box.  The 
top  was  screwed  down  and  an  opening  was  made 
at  one  end.  In  the  clutter  and  clatter  of  work  at- 
tending the  preparations  for  the  quick  replacement 
of  the  old  machinery,  the  eyes  of  the  keenest  guard 
would  not  have  noticed  that  the  headpiece  of  this 
particular  box  was  so  built  that  it  could  be  closed 
and  made  fast  from  within. 

The  last  shipment  out  at  night  would  be  at 
eleven  o'clock.  When  the  whistle  blew,  half  an 
hour  before  the  call  for  supper,  Montgomery 
went  to  his  cell  to  wash  up.  The  other  convicts 
were  being  marched  from  the  shops  to  their  tiers 
and  the  stone  walls  echoed  the  tramping  of  their 
feet.  Ranks  were  broken  in  the  corridors  between 
the  cells  in  the  dormitories. 

Bill  and  Montgomery  reached  their  cell  to- 
gether. The  time  was  at  hand  for  the  attempt  at 


104  THE  QUARRY 

escape.  The  burglar  ripped  open  his  mattress  and 
drew  out  the  gray  suit. 

"  Be  fast  now,"  advised  Bill.  "  I'll  cover  the 
door.  Get  out  of  your  clothes  and  get  the  suit 
on,  then  slip  the  regulars  over  them." 

Montgomery  had  stripped  off  his  blouse  when 
the  signal  for  assembly  sounded  suddenly. 

Both  men  started  with  fear.  The  signal  meant 
an  inspection  and  had  come,  as  it  always  does, 
without  warning.  For  a  moment  Bill  hesitated 
in  thought.  Then  he  grabbed  the  suit  of  gray  from 
Montgomery's  hands  and  swathed  it  about  his 
own  body  under  his  blouse. 

The  men  were  already  lining  up  in  the  corridor, 
and  they  joined  them.  The  cause  for  the  assembly 
was  soon  made  known  in  whispers  and  signs 
passed  along  by  the  convicts.  Some  one  in  the 
cutting  room  had  stolen  two  pairs  of  scissors  and  a 
bodkin,  both  dangerous  weapons.  The  cell  of 
every  man  working  in  that  department  would  be 
searched. 

There  were  only  five  men,  including  Bill,  in 
that  tier  who  worked  at  tailoring.  Two  guards 
searched  their  cells  and  the  five  men  were  or- 
dered to  step  to  the  front.  Guards  searched  them 


THE   QUARRY  105 

carefully.  One  of  the  searchers  pulled  up  Bill's 
blouse  and  saw  the  hidden  suit  of  clothes.  He 
looked  up  with  astonishment  for  he  had  expected 
no  such  find. 

"  What's  this?  "  he  demanded. 

Bill  made  no  answer.  He  was  white  with  rage 
and  dismay. 

The  warden  in  charge  of  the  tier  was  summoned 
and  the  suit  was  examined  carefully. 

"  Who  is  his  cell  mate?  "  the  warden  asked  of  a 
guard. 

"  Number  60,108,"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  he  didn't  know  a  thing  about  it,"  grunted 
Bill  surlily.  "  I  did  that  job  at  night  when  he  was 
asleep  and  kept  the  stuff  hidden  in  my  mattress. 
You  can  see  where  the  top  of  the  mattress  is 
ripped  open." 

"Getting  ready  to  attempt  an  escape,  eh?" 
asked  the  warden. 

Bill  nodded.  "  I'd  have  been  out  by  now  but 
for  that  milksop  in  my  cell,"  he  blurted.  "  He's 
one  of  these  guys  who  says  his  prayers  every 
night.  I  was  afraid  he  would  tell  on  me  and  so 
I  never  let  him  in  on  it." 

Bill  had  saved  his  friend  and  with  no  mean 


106  THE  QUARRY 

sacrifice.  The  star  and  the  disc  on  Montgomery's 
sleeve  had  helped  in  the  free  acceptance  of  Bill's 
story. 

A  guard  found  the  scissors  and  bodkin  in  an- 
other convict's  cell,  and  ranks  were  broken  and 
the  men  permitted  to  finish  the  wash-up  for  supper. 

Bill  was  sent  back  to  his  cell  and  Montgomery 
followed  him. 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  Bill?"  asked  the  young 
man.  "  Why  did  you  do  it?  The  penalty  is 
fifteen  marks  for  every  month  of  your  minimum 
sentence.  That  means  twenty-seven  hundred 
marks  against  you  and  there  is  an  added  day  of 
sentence  for  every  three  marks." 

Bill  had  calmly  taken  nine  hundred  days, 
nearly  two  and  a  half  years,  added  time,  to  help 
his  companion.  But  he  had  no  time  to  talk  over 
the  matter  now.  He  addressed  Montgomery 
brusquely.  The  minutes  were  precious. 

"  The  suit's  gone,"  he  said.  "  You've  got  to 
beat  it  for  the  Hackensack  meadows  by  freight 
over  on  the  other  shore.  Leave  the  freight  at 
Homestead  and  make  for  the  marsh  grass.  It 
is  six  feet  and  more  high.  They  can't  track  you 
through  it.  You'll  find  little  hummocks  of  hard 


THE  QUARRY  107 

ground  above  highwater  mark.  Look  sharp  and 
find  one  with  a  puddle  of  rain  water  on  it  if  you 
can.  Be  careful  about  quicksands.  There's  two 
quicksand  holes  northwest  of  Homestead.  Go 
in  the  other  direction." 

The  old  burglar  talked  rapidly  and  without 
moving  his  lips.  'The  words  came  in  a  whispered 
streak  to  the  ears  of  Montgomery.  Third  term 
men  became  ventriloquial  and  the  rule  of  silence 
falls  beneath  their  skill. 

He  reached  under  Montgomery's  mattress  and 
pulled  out  a  felt  hat.  "  Slip  this  under  your 
blouse,"  he  said. 

He  flipped  over  his  own  mattress  and  his  quick 
fingers  tore  open  the  under  sheet  of  ticking.  He 
found  five  ten-dollar  bills,  sewed  together  as  one. 

"  Put  this  in  your  kick,"  he  told  Montgomery. 
"  You  will  need  it.  Don't  ask  any  questions. 
There  ain't  time.  I  had  it  slipped  in  from  the 
outside." 

In  two  minutes  more  they  would  say  good-by 
to  each  other  if  the  escape  was  successfully  man- 
aged. 

"  Don't  forget  the  old  man,  Kid,"  Bill  said 
solemnly.  "  I  don't  know  how  much  it  counts, 


108  THE  QUARRY 

but  you  might  think  of  me  at  night  when  you 
say  your  prayers.  If  you  make  out  all  right,  get 
a  personal  in  the  Herald  and  sign  it  '  Kid.'  The 
Butcher  is  on  his  good  behavior  and  gets  the 
paper  regular.  He'll  watch  for  it  and  let  me  know. 
Any  kind  of  code  you  make  up  we  can  dope  out  in 
here." 

The  bell  sounded  for  mess  formation. 

Bill  held  out  his  hand  and  Montgomery  took  it 
in  both  of  his. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  open  head  of  the  oblong  box  in  the 
machine  shop  lay  between  the  legs  of  the 
table  at  which  convict  Number  60,108 
made  his  record  of  machinery  received  and  machin- 
ery shipped  from  the  prison.  The  box  was  ad- 
dressed in  heavily  inked  letters:  "  Sampson 
Machine  Works,  New  York  City,  via  New  York 
Central."  Apparently  it  was  ready  to  be  taken 
from  the  prison. 

Four  men  were  staggering  out  of  the  shop  with 
a  crated  machine  when  the  convict  at  the  desk 
asked  how  many  more  pieces  their  wagon  could 
take. 

"  One  more,"  replied  one  of  the  men. 

"  Can  you  handle  this  long  box  to  finish  the 
load?" 

"  It's  just  right  to  finish  up  with  for  the  night." 

"  All  right.  Take  it  out  when  you  return.  I 
may  be  out  of  the  shop.  It  is  time  to  turn  in. 
I  will  put  it  down  on  my  list  as  having  been  sent." 


110  THE  QUARRY 

The  convict  foreman  turned  and  went  to  the 
little  office  of  the  superintendent  of  machine  shops. 

"The  last  load  for  the  night  will  be  off  in  a 
few  moments,  sir?  "  he  informed  that  official. 

"  Very  good.  As  soon  as  the  last  piece  goes, 
you  may  report  to  your  tier  guard  and  turn  in," 
the  superintendent  replied. 

Number  60,108  returned  to  his  shop.  He  or- 
dered two  fellow  convicts  who  had  been  assisting 
him  to  report  for  good  night  to  the  superintendent. 
He  saw  them  obey  his  instructions  and  leave  the 
building. 

Montgomery  was  alone  in  the  room  and  at  his 
desk.  He  pretended  to  be  writing  in  his  record 
of  shipments.  At  his  feet  lay  the  oblong  box  with 
the  trick  end  under  the  desk  and  ready  to  be 
snapped  in  place. 

Outside  he  heard  the  clatter  of  the  heavy  shoes 
of  the  truckmen  approaching.  He  bowed  over 
his  desk  for  a  moment  and  then  disappeared. 
A  gray  form  wriggled  feet  first  into  the  box  and  the 
end  under  the  desk  suddenly  closed  with  a  slight 
click. 

The  truckmen  entered,  shouldered  the  coffin- 
like  case  and,  finding  it  lighter  than  they  had  ex- 


THE   QUARRY  111 

pected,  hastened  their  steps  that  they  might 
quickly  finish  with  their  job  for  the  night.  They 
passed  out  of  the  shop  to  the  quadrangle,  heaved 
the  box  to  the  rear  of  the  loaded  truck  and  roped 
it  on. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  and  the  stars  were 
obscured  by  clouds.  Arc  lights  made  the  quad- 
rangle as  bright  as  day  and  illumined  the  high 
walls  and  every  nook  and  corner.  Sentries  in 
their  little  octagonal  boxes  stood  with  their  rifles 
in  hand,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout. 

A  team  of  powerful  horses  tugged  at  the  burden 
and  the  load  of  machinery  was  started  out.  At 
the  gate  the  head  truckman  told  the  guard  that  his 
job  was  done  for  the  night  and  gave  him  a  slip 
containing  the  list  of  pieces  entrusted  to  him  to 
deliver  at  the  Ossining  freight  station. 

In  another  half-minute  convict  Number  60,108 
was  outside  of  the  walls  of  Sing  Sing.  He  braced 
himself  with  his  knees  and  elbows  when  the 
truck  jolted  over  rough  places  in  the  road. 

Bill  had  told  him  that  he  would  find  a  path  down 
the  cliff  a  half  mile  north  of  the  prison.  It  would 
lead  to  the  railroad  tracks.  He  was  to  find  it  and 
get  away  from  main  roads. 


112  THE  QUARRY 

Montgomery  counted  on  one  hour  before  his 
tier  guard  would  demand  an  explanation  of  his 
absence  at  the  machine  shop  and  then  give  the 
alarm. 

He  estimated  the  distance  by  the  speed  of  the 
horses  and  at  the  proper  moment  released  the  end 
of  the  box.  He  drew  himself  forth  and  tumbled, 
with  a  sidewise  twist,  to  the  soft,  earth  road. 
On  hands  and  knees  he  scrambled  into  the 
shadow  of  some  bushes  and  took  his  bearings. 
His  instructions  from  Bill  were  to  look  for  a  house 
with  a  double  porch  and  a  high-peaked  roof.  Op- 
posite this  house  he  would  find  the  path  down  the 
cliff  to  the  tracks.  His  estimate  of  the  distance 
traveled  by  the  truck  proved  a  good  one  and  he 
found  no  trouble  in  locating  the  house  and  then 
the  path. 

The  road  was  deserted  and  the  houses  all  dark. 
The  only  sound  was  the  creaking  of  the  load  of 
machinery,  which  rapidly  became  fainter  and 
fainter.  He  plunged  down  the  path  and,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cliff,  turned  and  ran  to  the  south 
through  the  little  tunnel  under  the  prison. 

There  were  six  miles  to  cover  to  Tarrytown,  then 
three  and  a  half  miles  across  the  Hudson  to  Nyack 


THE   QUARRY  113 

and  then  a  mile  and  a  half  westward  to  the  West 
Shore  Railroad,  which  would  take  him  to  the 
meadows  of  Newark  Bay. 

Bill's  inside  information  was  that  at  West 
Nyack  he  would  get  an  express  freight  at  four  in 
the  morning.  It  would  not  stop  until  Homestead 
was  reached;  there  some  of  the  cars  would  be 
shunted  to  the  Erie  tracks,  and  he  would  be 
able  to  slip  into  the  tall  marsh  grass  just  as  day 
was  breaking. 

Montgomery  had  five  hours  in  which  to  make 
the  schedule  outlined  for  him  by  his  burglar 
friend.  He  took  the  cinder  path  between  the 
tracks,  brought  his  clenched  hands  to  his  chest 
and  started  to  run  in  a  swinging  stride,  his  mouth 
closed  and  his  head  thrown  back. 

It  was  not  easy  going,  for  the  prison  brogans  are 
made  of  heavy,  stiff  leather,  with  soles  that  would 
sink  a  diver  to  his  task  below  the  sea.  His  heels 
and  toes  were  badly  blistered  by  the  end  of  his 
second  mile  and  he  was  compelled  to  stop  and 
rest.  He  did  not  dare  lie  down  for  fear  that  fatigue 
might  close  his  eyes  in  sleep. 

When  his  feet  had  cooled  and  his  breathing  had 
become  normal  again,  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  a 


114  THE   QUARRY 

great  rock  and  looked  toward  Ossining.  In  the 
velvet  distance  he  could  see  the  prison  lights  high 
on  the  cliff  above  the  village  station.  Below 
the  cliff  he  saw  tiny  lights  twinkling  and  at  first 
he  thought  them  fireflies.  His  years  within  prison 
walls  had  destroyed  his  sense  of  perspective.  He 
studied  these  will-o'-the-wisp  lights  and  soon  real- 
ized that  they  were  from  lanterns  swinging  in 
the  hands  of  men  hunting  him. 

The  fugitive  turned,  threw  back  his  head  and 
began  to  run.  He  increased  his  speed  gradually 
until  he  struck  a  gait  he  thought  he  could  hold 
for  an  hour  without  rupturing  a  blood  vessel. 
The  torn  skin  on  his  heels  fell  away  under  the 
chafing  of  the  heavy  leather  and  exposed  the  quick 
of  his  flesh.  Blood  began  to  fill  his  shoes  but  as 
he  ran  he  kept  telling  himself  that  he  could  well 
afford  to  suffer  ten  times  the  torture  if  he  reached 
his  goal  —  his  liberty. 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  discarded  his  number  and 
was  once  again  James  Montgomery,  a  human 
being,  out  in  the  open,  the  ground  beneath  him 
and  the  river  running  beside  him.  It  was  early 
summer  and  the  cool  night  air  was  sweet  with 
the  fragrance  of  breathing  flowers  and  fields. 


THE   QUARRY  115 

His  good  lungs  drew  in  the  balsamic  air  and 
pumped  oxygen  into  his  blood.  But  for  the  ever 
increasing  pain  of  his  torn  feet,  he  felt  that  he 
could  run  more  than  the  full  Marathon  course 
with  ease. 

Ahead  of  him  showed  the  northern  boundary 
lights  of  Tarrytown.  Once  he  looked  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  ran  but  he  could 'not  see  the  lan- 
terns of  the  hunters.  He  was  beginning  to  gather 
stronger  hope  of  ultimate  escape  when  the  will-o'- 
the-wisp  lights  showed  ahead  of  him.  He  stopped 
short  in  his  tracks. 

It  was  evident  that  the  Sing  Sing  officials  had 
telephoned  the  police  of  surrounding  villages.  To 
his  left  was  the  open  country,  but  with  villages 
every  three  or  four  miles  and  from  each  village, 
perhaps,  a  squad  of  men  with  lanterns,  forming 
a  circle  to  close  in  on  him. 

To  his  right  was  the  river  and  the  country  be- 
yond, a  country  he  knew  as  only  one  could  know 
who  roamed  it  in  boyhood.  He  lost  no  time  in 
deciding. 

Montgomery  ran  to  the  river's  edge  and  stripped 
off  the  heavy  prison  shoes.  He  peeled  off  the 
blood-soaked  socks  and  from  one  of  them  took 


116  THE  QUARRY 

the  money  Bill  had  given  him;  this  he  tied  in 
an  end  of  his  shirt  under  the  blouse.  Then  he 
hid  the  shoes  and  socks  under  a  pile  of  rubbish  and 
waded  out  into  the  river. 

The  clouds  still  covered  the  stars  overhead  and 
the  river  was  black  as  a  river  of  ink.  As  the  water 
reached  his  armpits,  he  threw  himself  forward  and 
began  to  swim  with  a  quiet,  underhand  stroke 
for  the  other  shore.  The  tide  was  flowing  out 
and  he  began  to  cross  diagonally,  to  get  the  full 
advantage  of  the  current.  He  figured  that,  with  a 
steady  stroke,  he  would  land  just  south  of  Nyack 
and  in  the  great,  friendly  shadow  of  Grand  View. 

He  used  a  bright  light  high  above  the  river's 
edge  on  the  Palisades  for  making  this  course. 
After  two  miles  he  would  reach  the  shallows, 
where  he  would  find  the  poles  of  fishing  nets 
spread  by  the  rivermen.  There  he  could  stop  and 
rest.  He  had  swum  the  river  as  a  boy  for  the  fun 
of  it;  as  a  man  and  with  a  man's  strength  he  was 
swimming  it  now  for  life. 

There  was  not  a  craft  to  be  seen  on  the  river. 
It  would  be  daybreak  before  the  night  line  steam- 
ship from  Albany  would  pass  between  Tarrytown 
and  Nyack. 


THE   QUARRY  117 

Reaching  the  middle  of  the  river,  he  changed  his 
stroke.  Until  now  he  had  kept  his  shoulders  under 
water,  swimming  underhanded.  Now  he  used 
the  fast  and  powerful  overhand  swing  of  the  arms, 
resting  himself  from  time  to  time  by  rolling  on 
either  side  and  using  the  easier  side  stroke. 

He  reached  the  net  poles  and  paused  to  get  his 
wind,  but  he  was  off  again  in  a  moment  and  soon 
made  the  shore.  The  tide  was  well  out  and  he  found 
refuge  under  the  landing  pier  of  a  boat  club.  He 
uttered  a  prayer  of  gratitude  as  he  pulled  off  his 
heavy  blouse  and  trousers  and  wrung  them  free 
of  water.  He  was  without  shoes  but  he  did  not 
fear  rocks  and  shards  in  his  path  to  liberty  and 
life  and  happiness.  He  would  have  gone  barefoot 
through  coals  of  fire  to  the  goal  he  had  set  for 
himself.  Then,  too,  he  knew  the  soft  country  lanes 
and  field  paths  leading  from  Nyack  to  West  Nyack. 

A  village  clock  struck  the  hour  of  two. 

Montgomery's  heart  leaped  within  him.  He 
could  make  the  fast  freight,  a  mile  and  a  half 
across  country,  easily.  He  started  from  the  river 
at  a  fast  walk. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

WEN  the  fast  freight  on  the  West  Shore, 
rom  West  Nyack  to  Jersey  City,  stopped 
with  a  grunt  and  a  clangor  of  iron  coup- 
lings at  Homestead,  a  creature  that  seemed  more 
a  reptile  than  a  human  crawled  from  a  brake- 
beam  under  the  last  car,  wriggled  from  the  cross- 
ties  and  disappeared  in  the  marsh. 

The  soft  mud  closed  over  each  track  of  hand 
and  knee  and  the  tall  grass  and  cattails  merely 
quivered  for  a  moment  and  then  fell  back  in 
position  to  hide  with  a  friendly  curtain  the  hunted 
thing  that  had  sought  sanctuary  there. 

A  stiff  breeze  from  the  sea  had  swept  the  horizon 
clear  of  clouds  and  had  lifted  the  mist  that  de- 
scends at  night  upon  the  moorlands  near  the 
harbor  of  New  York.  Soft  gray,  with  a  faint  dif- 
fusion of  opal  tints,  lighted  the  sky  and  gradually 
paled  into  death  the  light  of  the  morning  star. 
The  first  chirps  of  the  blackbirds,  robins  and  spar- 


A  creature  that  seemed  more  a  reptile  than  a  human  wriggled 
from  the  cross-ties  and  disappeared  in  the  marsh. 

Page  1 1 8. 


THE   QUARRY  119 

rows  announced  with  the  glow  above  that  the 
day  was  beginning.  A  catbird,  the  mocker  of 
the  Northern  latitudes,  began  to  try  out  his  voice, 
imitating  the  warblers  with  roulades  of  throaty 
and  rich  notes.  The  pink  blossoms  of  the  marsh- 
mallows  nodded  in  the  breeze  sweeping  saltily  from 
the  sea  and  the  dried  sedge  top  made  a  pleasant, 
whispering  sound. 

Hidden  in  the  widestretching  fen,  Montgomery 
saw  and  revelled  in  the  joy  of  the  first  sunrise 
he  had  looked  upon  in  five  years,  made  glad 
his  starved  soul  with  the  sound  of  the  birds 
stirring  from  their  nests  and  in  his  heart  echoed 
a  Te  Deum  for  his  deliverance  from  prison 
walls. 

The  long  ride  on  the  brakebeam  had  covered 
his  face,  hands  and  clothes  with  dust  and  grease 
until  he  seemed  a  part  of  the  bog  in  which  he  had 
sought  shelter  from  the  hounds  at  his  heels. 
Moving  cautiously,  and  always  fearful  of  a  pit 
of  quicksand,  he  sought  one  of  the  high  and  dry 
hummocks  Bill  had  told  him  of. 

He  needed  sleep  and  rest,  for  he  had  worn  out 
his  feet  and  legs  in  the  race  from  Sing  Sing  to 
North  Tarrytown  and  his  arms  in  the  swimming 


120  THE  QUARRY 

of  the  river.  Clinging  under  a  freight  car  for  the 
rest  of  the  flight  had  racked  every  nerve  and  muscle 
in  him. 

Montgomery  came  to  a  little  estuary  of  the 
bay  piercing  the  marsh  grass.  On  the  other  side 
he  could  see,  as  he  peered  through  the  rent  he 
made  in  the  green  wall,  a  rise  in  the  marsh  level 
and,  topping  it,  a  cluster  of  wild  flowers.  He 
recognized  it  as  his  refuge  against  high  tide  and  a 
place  where  he  could  lie  down  and  sleep. 

With  a  few  strokes  the  escaped  convict  made  the 
other  side  and  gained  the  hummock.  He  found 
it  dry  and  littered  with  an  accumulation  of  with- 
ered and  fallen  stalks  and  leaves.  No  bed  ever 
felt  so  soft  and  alluring  to  a  worn  creature.  He 
threw  himself  down  upon  the  litter,  shielded  his 
grimy  face  with  an  arm  and  was  asleep  in  a 
moment. 

The  sun  at  meridian  beat  down  in  a  straight 
shaft  upon  the  sleeping  man  and  gnats  and  mos- 
quitoes fed  upon  him,  but  still  he  slept.  Only  semi- 
conscious of  the  act,  he  pulled  his  gray  blouse 
over  his  head  and  face  and  stuck  his  hands  under 
it  when  the  torture  became  too  great.  The  winged 
pests  preyed  upon  his  torn  feet  and  in  his  sleep 


THE   QUARRY  121 

he  protected  them  by  burrowing  with  his  toes  in 
the  litter  of  his  tiny  island  refuge. 

In  the  afternoon  the  breeze  from  the  sea  in- 
creased to  a  gale  as  the  tide  reached  the  flood  and 
the  skies  became  overcast.  A  great  clap  of  thunder 
awakened  the  sleeping  fugitive.  He  put  his  hands 
to  his  face,  swollen  with  the  bites  of  the  insects, 
then  looked  about  him  with  half  closed  eyes  and 
remembered.  The  water  was  lapping  at  his  feet. 

The  wind  had  sent  mosquitoes  and  gnats  to 
cover.  He  stripped  and  washed  himself  clean. 
A  glance  at  the  heavens  told  him  that  soon  the 
rain  would  fall.  He  had  been  twenty-four  hours 
without  a  drink  of  water  or  a  particle  of  food. 
Bill  had  warned  him  about  the  tortures  of  thirst. 
He  placed  the  felt  hat  given  him  by  the  burglar 
so  that  it  would  catch  the  rain;  he  followed  Bill's 
advice  and  of  his  blouse  made  a  little  cloth  reser- 
voir supported  on  sticks  of  driftwood.  The  fall 
of  the  rain  on  his  naked  body  and  upturned  face 
would  reduce  the  fever  set  up  by  the  stings  of  the 
pests,  and  he  would  hoard  as  best  he  could  what 
rain  water  he  could  catch  in  blouse  and  hat. 

Montgomery  stood  on  the  highest  point  of  his 
little  place  of  refuge  and  found  that  his  eyes  topped 


122  THE  QUARRY 

the  marshline.  He  broke  several  branches  of 
wild  flowers  and  held  them  so  that  his  head  would 
be  concealed  as  he  made  his  observations. 

To  the  north  he  saw  a  weatherbeaten  shack, 
perhaps  the  rendezvous  of  Jersey  fishermen  or  an 
abandoned  duck  hunters'  club.  It  was  distant  less 
than  a  hundred  yards  and  he  determined  to  visit 
it  after  nightfall  in  the  search  for  food  and  clothes. 
Just  beyond  it  was  a  trolley  trestle  and  he  saw  a 
car  whizzing  across  it  at  full  speed. 

The  rain  began  to  fall  and  the  first  splashing  of 
it  against  his  body  was  as  a  flow  of  ointment  to  the 
sores  of  Job  after  a  flood  of  stale  words  from  his 
comforter  Bildad,  the  Shuhite. 

He  remembered  that  Bill  Hawkins  had  warned 
him  against  dry  weather  in  the  meadows.  The 
county  constabulary  had  set  fire  to  the  parched 
grass  to  smoke  out  escaped  convicts  in  times  gone 
by  and  there  had  been  several  poor  devils  baked 
alive.  The  rain  would  save  him  from  this  dreadful 
menace.  He  felt  that  God  was  good  and  caring 
for  him  again.  His  profound  faith  in  Him  was 
made  sweeter  for  this  mercy. 

Up  from  the  distant  ocean  the  clouds  rolled  in 
great,  black  folds,  ripped  raggedly  in  white 


THE  QUARRY  123 

streaks,  as  the  lightning  played  and  as  the  thunder- 
ous voices  proclaimed  that  a  hot  sky  and  a  smiling 
sea  had  brought  forth  a  summer's  storm. 

Holding  his  shield  of  wild  flowers  about  his 
head,  Montgomery  gazed  upon  the  spectacle, 
standing  naked  to  the  fall  of  the  rain,  fearless  of 
the  lightning  seams  in  the  troubled  curtain  above 
him,  reverent  of  nature  as  he  was  of  nature's 
Master,  and  fearful  only  that  the  blouse  with  the 
white  disc  and  star  beside  him  might  upset  and 
spill  the  precious  drops  of  fresh  water. 

The  gale  increased  as  the  afternoon  waned,  and 
as  his  cloth  reservoir  filled,  he  squatted  beside  it, 
making  fast  the  sticks  that  held  the  corners  and 
carefully  guarding  it.  Twice  he  leaned  over  and 
drank  thirstily  when  it  filled  and  began  to  over- 
flow. 

He  was  groping  for  more  sticks  of  driftwood  to 
strengthen  his  reservoir  supports  when  a  white 
object  in  the  marsh  grass  struck  his  eye. 

In  the  gloaming  of  a  stormy  twilight  he  could 
not  make  out  just  what  the  object  was  and  he 
parted  the  grass  and  leaned  nearer.  He  recoiled 
with  a  little  cry  of  horror.  He  had  looked  upon 
the  face  of  a  drowned  man! 


124  THE   QUARRY 

With  the  storm  above  him  and  beating  upon 
him  and  with  the  marsh  stretching  around  him, 
a  vision  of  death  had  come  to  pay  him  a  visit. 

For  several  minutes  he  stood  naked  and  shiver- 
ing, awed  but  not  frightened.  Then  he  parted 
the  grass  again,  reached  down  and  dragged  to  his 
little  island  the  abandoned  tenement  of  a  man's 
soul. 

From  the  yearly  average  of  more  than  three 
hundred  bodies  that  are  taken  from  the  waters 
about  New  York  City,  this  one  poor  relic  of  a 
human  existence  had  been  swept  by  the  tide  and 
the  wind  to  the  feet  of  a  living  creature  who  had 
escaped  from  a  tomb. 

James  Montgomery  knelt  beside  the  body  and 
prayed.  And  as  he  prayed,  there  came  to  his  mind 
the  thought  that  none  other  than  his  Merciful 
Father  in  Heaven  had  sent  to  him  this  outcast 
of  life.  He  had  brought  with  him  an  offering  of  a 
suit  of  clothes. 

In  the  pitch  black  of  a  night  of  storm,  the  fugi- 
tive put  upon  the  dead  man  the  blouse  with  the 
white  disc  and  white  star  of  honor  and  the  baggy 
trousers. 

In  the  soaked   and   muddied   suit  of  working 


THE   QUARRY  125 

clothes  he  took  in  exchange,  Montgomery  knelt 
for  a  final  prayer  in  parting  with  the  dead  and 
then  disappeared  in  the  marsh  grass  toward  the 
nearest  shore  lights. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AS  the  men  directing  the  bands  of  hunters 
reported  by  telephone  from  hour  to  hour 
that  no  trace  of  the  escaped  convict  had 
been  found,  the  warden  of  Sing  Sing  extended  his 
zone  of  search. 

Police  headquarters  in  New  York  City  was 
notified  by  telephone  and  a  request  made  that 
men  be  sent  to  watch  all  incoming  trains,  freight 
and  passenger. 

It  was  a  case  for  the  plain-clothes  men  and 
Inspector  Ranscombe  was  reached  by  telephone 
at  his  home. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  convict  and  how  long 
a  term  did  he  have?  "  asked  the  inspector  over  the 
wire. 

"  James  Montgomery  and  he  was  in  for  life  for 
murder,"  the  headquarters  lieutenant  informed 
him. 

"  Where  was  he  sent  up  from?  " 

"  From  New  York." 


THE   QUARRY  127 

"  One  of  our  cases?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  he  was  convicted  of  second  degree 
murder  and  sent  up  five  years  ago." 

"  Yes,  I  recall  now.  It  was  the  West  End 
National  Bank  case.  Mike  Kearney  handled  it, 
didn't  he?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  shoot  the  men  from  the  Harlem  and 
Bronx  stations  to  the  railroad  yards  and  tell  'em 
to  round  up  all  the  hoboes  and  suspicious  char- 
acters they  run  into.  Let  Kearney  sleep  until 
seven  in  the  morning  and  then  get  word  to  him. 
Tell  him  his  man  Montgomery  is  out  and  that 
he  is  to  handle  the  matter  if  he  is  not  recaptured 
by  that  time." 

"All  right,  sir." 

Within  fifteen  minutes  all  the  available  detect- 
ives from  the  Harlem  and  Bronx  precincts  were 
busy  finding  and  arresting  all  incoming  tramps 
and  wayfarers  of  the  night. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  Sing  Sing  re- 
ported failure  to  recapture  the  escaped  "  lifer  " 
and  the  Oak  Street  police  station  was  instructed 
over  the  telephone  to  send  a  man  to  the  little  flat 
in  Oliver  Street  and  rout  out  Mike  Kearney. 


128  THE   QUARRY 

Mrs.  Kearney,  who  was  about  to  start  for 
early  mass,  dropped  her  beads  and  her  "  Key  of 
Heaven "  and  hurriedly  prepared  a  breakfast 
as  her  son  dressed.  He  was  for  hurrying  to  head- 
quarters without  a  second's  delay  but  she  made 
him  swallow  a  cup  of  coffee  and  three  soft-boiled 
eggs  first. 

"  Half  the  time  you  don't  stop  to  eat  when 
ye're  on  a  case,"  she  said  reproachfully.  "  If 
one  of  me  own  people  was  in  trouble  I  wouldn't 
be  wantin'  the  likes  of  me  son  Mike  to  start  after 
him." 

Kearney  grunted,  felt  at  his  hip  to  be  sure  that 
his  gun  was  there,  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes 
and  departed. 

At  headquarters  the  lieutenant  in  charge  of 
the  detective  bureau  informed  him  that  there 
was  no  reason  for  haste. 

"  The  inspector  just  telephoned  for  you  to  wait 
here  until  he  comes,"  he  told  Kearney.  "  Jim 
Montgomery,  the  yegg  you  sent  up  for  life,  es- 
caped from  Sing  Sing  last  night  and  —  " 

"  What?  "  gasped  Kearney. 

The  tone  of  his  voice  was  that  of  a  man  who  had 
been  deeply  aggrieved. 


THE   QUARRY  129 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "  He's  got  a  good 
eight  hours'  start  of  those  Sing  Sing  boneheads. 
We've  had  men  at  all  the  railroad  yards  since  mid- 
night but  if  he  came  this  way  they  all  missed  him." 

"  How'd  he  get  out?  " 

"  Here's  a  morning  paper.  It  will  give  you  all 
the  details." 

Kearney  took  the  paper  and  went  to  the  little 
waiting-room  for  detectives,  stretched  himself  in 
a  chair  with  his  feet  on  the  table  and  read  a  full 
account  of  the  escape. 

He  reread  the  story  carefully  and  then  went 
to  the  identification  bureau  and  secured  all  the 
records  in  the  case  of  the  Police  against  James 
Montgomery.  He  thoroughly  refreshed  his  mem- 
ory on  every  point  in  the  case  and  studied  the  pho- 
tographs from  the  Rogues'  Gallery  until  he  felt 
that  he  would  recognize  his  man  again  the  moment 
he  laid  eyes  on  him.  The  inspector  arrived  at 
nine  o'clock  and  Kearney  was  summoned  be- 
fore him  immediately. 

The  passing  of  five  years  had  made  little  differ- 
ence in  the  appearance  of  either  man.  Rans- 
combe's  bristly  mustache  was  a  bit  whiter  and 
his  shaggy  head  of  iron  gray  hair  perhaps  some- 


130  THE  QUARRY 

what  thinner,  but  the  same  suggestion  of  latent 
ferocity  was  in  his  eyes  and  in  the  set  of  his  jaw. 

Kearney's  homely  features  were  unchanged. 
He  was  still  the  type  of  slow  and  sure-going  man- 
hunter,  stolid,  keen-eyed,  but  without  a  trace 
of  human  emotion. 

"  Well,  Mike,"  hailed  the  inspector,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  the  departure  of  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery? " 

Kearney  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  He  ain't 
the  first  yegg  to  get  out,"  he  said.  "  They 
got  plenty  of  money  and  don't  mind  spending 
it.  The  papers  say  he  was  the  best  machinist 
in  the  prison.  I  guess  he'll  be  using  electric 
drills  on  safes  around  the  country." 

"  He  was  only  a  boy  as  I  remember  him," 
suggested  the  inspector,  "  and  somehow  he  im- 
pressed me  as  truthful,  although  the  evidence 
convicted  him  of  the  crime." 

"  There's  lots  of  boy  wonders  among  the  crooks," 
replied  the  detective.  "  There's  the  Boston 
Kid,  Little  Jimmie  Moran,  Baby  Bernstein  and 
a  whole  raft  of  them  that's  just  out  of  short  pants." 

"  Well,  everything  is  pretty  quiet  now,"  said 
the  inspector,  "  and  we  might  just  as  well  spend 


THE  QUARRY  131 

a  little  time  on  the  Montgomery  escape.  Do  you 
think  you  can  find  him?  " 

"  I  gotta  good  start  on  the  job,"  Kearney 
replied.  "  We  got  his  record.  He  can  grow 
whiskers,  change  his  name  and  hide  where  he 
wants  to,  but  if  I  ever  get  the  print  of  one  of  his 
fingers  and  check  up  on  it,  he  comes  back  to 
Mulberry  Street  with  me." 

Kearney's  voice  quavered  with  eagerness  as  he 
spoke.  He  was  hungry  for  the  job  and  in  his 
soul  he  was  howling  to  be  unleashed  that  he  might 
start  for  the  game  before  the  trail  became  cold. 

The  inspector  began  to  open  his  mail.  As  he 
sorted  the  personal  from  the  official  letters  he 
said,  without  lifting  his  eyes:  "  Go  get  him." 

Kearney  slipped  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  is  only  a  part  of  an  hour's  journey  from  the 
Grand  Central  Station  in  Forty-second  Street 
to  the  prison  village  of  Ossining. 

Detective  Lieutenant  Michael  Kearney  pre- 
sented himself  in  the  warden's  office  at  Sing  Sing 
at  ten-thirty  o'clock  the  morning  after  the  escape 
of  Convict  Number  60,108. 

He  showed  his  authority  to  the  warden  and 
said  abruptly:  "  We  put  him  in  here  for  life  and 
we  want  to  get  him  back  here  and  keep  him  here." 

The  warden  flushed  but  controlled  his  anger. 

"  You  mean  that  you're  going  to  help  us  try 
to  recapture  this  escaped  convict,"  he  said  coldly. 

"  Yuh,"  grunted  Kearney.  "  You  got  my 
number." 

The  detective  felt  a  personal  animosity  to  the 
warden  for  having  let  his  quarry  escape  from  the 
pit  into  which  the  police  had  hurled  him. 

:<  Well,  this  isn't  exactly  the  place  to  hunt  for 
Number  60,108,"  the  warden  said,  with  a  grim 


THE  QUARRY  133 

smile.  "  He  left  here  about  eleven  o'clock  last 
night." 

"  Did  he  have  any  help  from  the  outside?  " 
asked  Kearney. 

"  None  that  we  know  of.  He  managed  to  slip 
out  in  a  box  with  a  lot  of  machinery." 

"  Did  he  get  any  inside  help?  " 

"  None  that  we  know  of." 

"  Did  he  have  a  cell  mate?  " 

"  He  did." 

"  I'd  like  to  talk  with  him." 

The  warden  pressed  a  button  and  instructed  a 
deputy  to  bring  Convict  Number  60,110  before 
him. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  great  hulk  of  Bill  Hawkins 
showed  in  the  door  of  the  office. 

Kearney  had  taken  a  chair  with  his  back  to  a 
window  filled  with  sunlight. 

The  old  convict  saw  him  but  could  not  make 
out  his  features  because  of  the  glare  in  his  eyes. 
He  sensed  the  human  bloodhound  in  him,  how- 
ever. He  recognized  the  big  feet  and  droopy 
form  of  the  plain-clothes  man  and  was  fully 
acquainted  with  the  old  trick  of  sitting  with  the 
back  to  the  light. 


134  THE  QUARRY 

Bill  nodded  to  the  warden. 

"  Hello,  Bill,"  was  Kearney's  greeting.  The 
detective  had  recognized  him  as  an  old  offender. 

Bill  turned  to  him  and  walked  so  that  the  light 
would  not  be  directly  in  his  eyes.  From  a  bet- 
ter position  he  studied  the  detective's  face  a 
moment. 

He  did  not  reply  to  the  greeting  although  he, 
in  turn,  recognized  Kearney.  He  turned  to  the 
warden  and  asked:  "Did  you  want  anything 
of  me,  sir?  " 

"  Yes;  the  detective  here  would  like  to  ask  you 
some  questions,"  replied  the  warden. 

"  How  much  more  time  you  got  to  serve,  Bill?  " 
asked  Kearney. 

"  Ten  years  and  then  some,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Marks  against  you  ?  " 

The  old  burglar  hesitated. 

"  He  ain't  got  no  stripes  on  his  arm,  warden," 
said  Kearney.  "  Would  you  mind  finding  out 
what  the  prison  charges  were  against  him?  " 

The  deputy  warden  furnished  the  record.  It 
showed  that  on  his  own  confession  he  had  been 
found  guilty  of  planning  to  escape  and  had  suffered 
the  addition  of  more  than  two  years'  extra  time 


THE   QUARRY  135 

to  his  sentence.  A  suit  of  clothes  had  been  found 
in  his  cell,  the  report  of  the  conviction  related. 

"  You  got  the  suit  still,  warden? "  asked 
Kearney. 

"  Yes." 

The  deputy  was  sent  for  it. 

"  Try  on  the  coat,  Bill,"  ordered  Kearney, 
when  the  clothes  were  brought  him. 

"What's  all  this  for?"  demanded  Bill,  un- 
easily and  savagely. 

"  Pull  off  your  blouse  and  try  it  on,"  insisted 
the  detective. 

Bill  turned  to  the  warden.  "  I  gotta  do  what 
this  bull  says?  "  he  asked. 

"  Take  it  easy,  old  man,"  the  warden  said 
soothingly.  "  Try  on  the  coat." 

Bill,  a  smothered  volcano  of  anathemae,  did 
as  he  was  instructed. 

The  sleeves  of  the  coat  reached  barely  beyond 
the  elbows  of  his  gorilla-like  arms  and  so  tight 
was  it  that  buttons  and  buttonholes  were  a  good 
six  inches  apart. 

"  You  didn't  expect  to  escape  in  that?  "  asked 
Kearney. 

The  convict  ignored  the  question. 


136  THE  QUARRY 

"  You  made  it  for  your  cellmate  who  did  es- 
cape," the  detective  said  sharply. 

"  What  are  you  kicking  about? "  demanded 
Bill,  his  sunken  eyes  flashing  hate  as  he  spoke. 
"  Ain't  I  taking  the  extra  time?  " 

"  But  you  don't  have  to,  Bill,"  coaxed  Kearney. 
"  You  can  get  that  time  taken  off  and  then  some 
of  the  original  sentence  too  if  you  will  help  us  out." 
The  bribe  was  offered. 

Bill  sneered  and  looked  to  the  warden  as  if  in 
supplication  that  Kearney  be  kicked  from  the 
room. 

The  warden  had  no  sympathy  with  the  class 
of  work  his  detective  visitor  was  indulging  in. 
He  made  a  motion  with  his  hand  to  the  convict, 
a  sign  to  him  to  control  himself. 

"  Nothing  doing,"  said  the  old  burglar  to 
Kearney. 

"  You've  served  a  good  part  of  your  sentence," 
suggested  Kearney.  "  Now  suppose  I  get  a 
pardon  or  a  parole  through  for  you,  will  you  help  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  nothing,"  Bill  choked  out. 

Kearney  sat  quietly  for  a  moment  as  if  deciding 
on  the  size  and  quality  of  his  next  bribe  offering. 

"  Bill,"  began  Kearney  slowly. 


THE   QUARRY  137 

"What?" 

"  I  saw  your  old  girl  one  night  last  week  — 
Rosie." 

The  heavy  jaw  of  Hawkins  dropped  and  he 
felt  as  if  the  talons  of  a  great  eagle  had  gripped  his 
heart. 

"  She  was  pretty  hard  up,"  added  Kearney. 
"  She  had  changed  from  Broadway  to  Third 
Avenue  and  then  to  the  Bowery." 

Bill's  tongue  was  protruding  over  his  yellow 
lower  teeth.  Rage  was  choking  him. 

"  She  was  a  pretty  girl  when  I  was  a  kid  on  the 
cops,"  continued  Kearney. 

A  coughing  sound,  such  as  a  tiger  makes  when 
he  swallows  a  sharp  sliver  of  a  bone,  came  from 
the  convict.  A  cloud  swept  by  the  warden  in  his 
chair  and  fell  upon  Detective  Lieutenant  Michael 
Kearney  of  police  headquarters,  New  York. 

For  a  moment,  Mike  Kearney  was  close  to 
death,  but  rage  had  blinded  the  convict  and  he 
fumbled  in  his  reach  for  the  throat  of  his  enemy. 
A  dozen  prison  attendants  were  in  the  room  at  the 
sound  of  the  crash  and  Bill  Hawkins  was  dragged 
from  his  prey  in  time. 

The  detective  struggled  to  his  feet  and  straight- 


138  THE   QUARRY 

ened  out  his  rumpled  clothes.  When  he  got  his 
wind  he  turned  to  the  convict  and  said :  "  I  guess 
that  means  a  little  more  time  for  you,  Bill." 

The  warden  had  had  enough  of  the  practice 
of  the  third  degree  in  his  office. 

"  One  minute,"  he  said  to  the  attendants  hold- 
ing Bill.  He  turned  to  Kearney.  "  Have  you 
finished?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

He  turned  to  the  livid  old  prisoner  before  him. 

"  Bill,  was  this  woman  he  told  you  about  your 
wife?" 

"  She's  my  wife,"  he  panted.  "  She's  got  the 
certificate  to  prove  it.  If  she's  on  the  Bowery, 
it's  because  she  didn't  have  nowhere  else  to  go." 

There  were  no  sobs  left  in  Bill,  Number  60, no. 
His  eyes  had  long  been  wrung  of  the  last  tear. 
God  had  made  him  and  man  had  driven  him  to  a 
corner  where  his  only  solace  was  the  curse  of  the 
anarch. 

"  Go  back  to  your  cell,  Bill,"  said  the  warden. 

As  the  convict  was  taken  away  the  warden 
turned  to  his  desk  and  started  to  read  the  reports 
of  his  deputies. 

Kearney  took  the  hint  and  with  a  grim  smile 


THE   QUARRY  139 

on  his  homely  face  left  the  office.  Not  a  bit  dis- 
couraged, he  caught  the  next  down  train,  left  it 
at  Tarrytown  and  crossed  on  the  ferry  to  Nyack. 
He  would  try  Montgomery's  own  people  in  the 
hope  of  breaking  out  a  good  lead  to  his  quarry. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DETECTIVE  LIEUTENANT  KEARNEY, 
after  several  days  in  Nyack,  returned  to 
New  York,  and  from  the  old  gray  build- 
ing in  Mulberry  Street  put  into  operation  all 
the  resources  of  the  finest  and  most  inexorable 
police  system  in  the  world,  to  the  end  that  James 
Montgomery  might  be  taken  back  to  a  Sing  Sing 
cell  to  end  his  life  there. 

Working  on  the  trite  axiom  that  chickens  come 
home  to  roost,  Kearney  had  looked  up  every  friend 
of  the  Montgomery  family  in  Nyack  and  the 
country  around.  He  had  impressed  the  town 
police  with  the  necessity  for  alertness  and  patience 
in  aiding  in  the  recapture  of  the  escaped  convict. 

Montgomery  would  come  back  some  day  to 
the  place  of  his  birth.  When  the  exile  years  grew 
stale  and  profitless,  the  heimweh  would  get  him 
and  he  would  succumb  to  it. 

He  arranged  with  the  postal  department  to  put 


THE  QUARRY  141 

a  watch  on  all  letters  sent  to  the  immediate  friends 
of  his  quarry  and  his  dead  and  buried  mother. 
Tantalizingly  fond  thoughts  of  home,  of  parents, 
of  old  sweethearts,  of  beloved  friends  or  of  scenes 
sweetly  and  deeply  placed  in  memory,  have 
brought  into  the  waiting  and  strong  net  of  the 
police  more  than  half  of  the  prisoners  taken. 

All  this  carefully  attended  to,  Kearney  had  the 
printer  of  the  police  department  spread  on  his 
forms  photographic  plates  showing  Montgomery's 
face  in  profile  and  in  full.  A  reward  of  one  thou- 
sand dollars  for  information  leading  to  his  re- 
capture was  announced  in  black  type  above  the 
pictures;  below  was  given  a  minute  description 
of  the  convict,  taken  from  the  police  records.  These 
circulars  were  printed  and  sent  to  every  police 
center  in  every  city  and  town  in  the  country.  It 
was  a  general  alarm  to  every  bluecoat  and  plain- 
clothes  man  in  the  United  States  to  aid  in  starting 
up  the  game  from  cover. 

It  was  not  exciting  detective  work  but  Kearney 
went  at  it  as  if  his  whole  career  depended  on  its 
successful  accomplishment.  With  the  aid  of  a 
stenographer  and  a  mimeograph  he  sent  special 
letters  to  the  heads  of  all  big  firms  employing 


142  THE   QUARRY 

machinists.  This  narrowed  the  search  to  a  con- 
siderable extent. 

While  this  work  was  under  way,  Kearney  gave 
the  announcement  of  the  reward  to  the  news- 
papers. Every  money-hungry  man  and  woman  in 
the  country  would  keep  his  or  her  eyes  open  for  a 
chance  to  pick  the  fugitive  from  the  crowd. 

Montgomery,  in  flight,  soon  learned  of  the 
spreading  of  the  net  from  Mulberry  Street.  After 
leaving  the  meadows,  he  managed  to  find  a  hiding 
place  in  a  freight  car.  He  traveled  all  night  and 
with  morning  dropped  off  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
little  New  Jersey  village.  He  remained  in  the 
woods  all  day,  determined  that  the  good  start, 
so  providentially  given  him,  should  not  be  lost 
through  any  lack  of  caution  on  his  part. 

At  a  brook,  he  cleaned  himself  and  the  muddied 
garments  he  wore  and  at  evening  of  the  second  day 
of  his  escape  he  felt  that  he  could  present  himself 
among  his  fellows  again.  During  this  time  he 
had  appeased  his  hunger  with  carrots,  radishes 
and  turnips  from  the  edge  of  a  truck  farm. 

He  craved  a  warming  drink  and  more  substan- 
tial food.  After  dark,  he  entered  the  village  and 
found  a  lunch  wagon  near  the  railroad  station. 


THE  QUARRY  143 

It  was  while  eating  in  this  roadside  caravanserai 
that  he  overheard  two  men  gossiping  about  the 
one  thousand  dollar  reward  offered  for  his  recap- 
ture. 

"  It  was  a  daring  escape,"  said  the  man  next 
him.  "  The  newspapers  all  wrote  it  up  in  fine 
style  and  announced  that  the  police  would  pay 
the  reward.  I  asked  Constable  Miklejohn  about 
it  and  he  told  me  that  soon  a  description  and  his 
pictures  would  be  in  the  hands  of  every  police 
officer  everywhere." 

"  A  thousand  dollars  is  a  lot  of  money,"  com- 
mented the  other,  cupidously.  "  When  can  we 
see  the  circular  and  get  a  good  look  at  the  pic- 
tures? " 

"  The  sergeant  expects  to  get  some  of  them  by 
the  end  of  the  week." 

Montgomery  finished  his  meal  in  silence,  paid 
for  it  from  the  money  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  prison  and  departed. 

He  realized  that  within  a  week  or  ten  days  he 
would  not  dare  show  his  face  to  a  police  officer 
in  city  or  village.  He  would  have  to  get  beyond 
the  police  net  if  he  could.  It  would  take  time  for 
him  to  grow  a  beard  and  change  his  appearance. 


144  THE  QUARRY 

He  would  seek  refuge  in  a  part  of  the  country 
where  villages  and  towns  were  not  so  closely 
crowded  together.  In  some  remote  corner  he 
could,  perhaps,  secure  for  himself  some  little 
social  standing,  just  enough  to  feel  as  if  he  had 
some  identity  other  than  that  written  in  the 
police  records.  He  would  willingly  work  his  hands 
to  the  quick  in  any  form  of  honest  toil  for  this 
boon. 

He  secured  a  time-table  at  the  railroad  station 
and,  finding  that  a  Southern  express  paused  there, 
bought  a  ticket  to  Richmond,  Virginia. 

On  the  train  he  secured  copies  of  the  New  York 
newspapers  and  read  the  accounts  of  the  search 
for  the  escaped  convict.  In  all  of  the  stories  refer- 
ence was  made  to  the  fact  that  he  was  an  expert 
machinist  and  he  felt  that  the  police  would  surely 
look  for  him  among  those  of  his  craft.  His  heart 
sank  within  him.  How  long  would  it  be  before 
he  dared  go  back  to  the  work  that  he  loved  and 
that  he  was  entitled  to  pursue  because  of  the  gift 
he  had  to  do  it  fully  and  because  of  the  years  of 
preparation?  His  craft  was  to  bring  him  the 
means  by  which  some  day  his  name  would  be 
cleared  so  that  he  would  have  the  inestimable 


THE   QUARRY  145 

boon  of  moving  without  a  police  shadow  at  his 
heels,  of  living  in  the  open  and  of  doing  his  best 
in  the  struggle  of  life. 

He  coiled  up  on  his  seat  in  a  day  coach,  covered 
his  face  with  one  of  the  newspapers  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  woke,  he  was  in  the  South  and  the  pas- 
sengers for  Richmond  were  crowding  the  doors  of 
the  coach.  He  felt  refreshed  and  ready  to  face 
the  day  and  what  came  of  it. 

In  the  busy  and  beautiful  Virginia  city,  Mont- 
gomery lingered  for  several  days,  taking  a  humble 
lodging  in  a  cheap  boarding-house  and  gradually 
equipping  himself  with  a  modest  wardrobe.  He 
lived  with  strictest  economy,  hoarding  his  scanty 
supply  of  money.  He  yearned  for  a  chance  to  work 
with  his  hands  but  he  feared  to  show  himself  in 
the  daytime  as  yet.  There  were  locomotive  works, 
great  tobacco  manufacturies,  ship  yards  and  other 
places  of  industry  where  a  capable  machinist 
might  easily  find  profitable  employment  but  he 
felt  that  it  was  in  just  such  places  that  the  police 
would  seek  him.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he  learned 
from  an  afternoon  paper  that  the  local  police  had 
posted  circulars  offering  a  reward  for  his  capture. 
He  saw  his  own  picture  on  the  front  page  of  the 


146  THE  QUARRY 

paper  and  under  it  a  close  and  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  himself.  He  would  have  to  move  on. 

He  did  not  return  to  his  lodging-house  for  the 
little  supply  of  clothes  he  had  gathered,  though 
he  had  paid  for  his  room  in  advance.  He  knew 
that  every  other  city  in  the  country  would  soon 
be  added  to  the  police  mesh  and  he  determined  to 
leave  the  paved  streets  for  the  quiet  and  seclusion 
of  country  roads.  In  a  section  of  the  city  where 
the  poorer  people  did  their  shopping  he  bought  a 
tin  of  meat  and  a  box  of  crackers.  He  still  had 
twenty-five  dollars  and  he  would  have  spent  the 
most  of  it  for  a  kit  of  tools  but  he  did  not  dare 
run  the  risk.  He  managed  to  pick  up  in  a  small 
shop  a  soldering  outfit,  a  light  hammer,  resin, 
a  spool  of  wire  and  a  few  other  essentials  for  a 
tinker's  outfit.  He  made  a  light  pack  and,  as 
night  was  falling,  found  his  way  out  of  the  city. 
It  was  summer  and  he  could  sleep  in  barns  and 
stables  or  in  the  open  during  fair  weather. 

As  he  left  the  last  of  the  houses  behind  him, 
he  came  to  a  wide-spreading  turnpike.  He  started 
southward  over  this  road  in  search  of  a  haven  where 
he  might  work  under  an  assumed  name  and  begin 
life  anew. 


THE   QUARRY  147 

The  stars  were  bright  overhead  and  the  evening 
sweet  and  balmy.  With  a  good,  long  stride  he 
increased  the  distance  between  him  and  the  city 
whose  homes  held  the  police  pictures  of  himself 
printed  that  day.  He  determined  to  travel  on 
foot  by  night  and  sleep  by  day  until  his  beard 
was  fully  grown. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

INTO  the  lower  bay  of  New  York  came  welling 
one  of  the  highest  tides  of  the  early  summer. 
The  great  heave  of  the  ocean  crowded  the 
Narrows  and  rushed  into  the  upper  bay,  filling 
the  slips  on  the  Jersey  City  side  of  the  North 
River  to  the  brim  and  crowding  under  to  the 
streets,  until  the  horses  stood  knee-deep  in  the 
brine.  Through  the  narrow  Kill  von  Kull  and 
the  Arthur  Kull,  which  separate  Staten  Island 
from  the  mainland,  the  big  tide  rushed  with  the 
speed  of  a  mill-race  into  landlocked  Newark  Bay. 
Higher  and  higher  the  water  rose,  until  the 
nests  of  the  marshfowl  floated  away  and  only  the 
top  of  the  sedge  was  to  be  seen.  The  highest  of 
the  hummocks  in  the  meadows  was  covered  and 
with  the  turning  of  the  tide  their  gatherings  of 
spindrift  were  returned  to  the  waters  whence  they 
came. 

The   lone,   dead   visitor   that   had   sought   out 
Montgomery,    as   he   stood    naked    on    his    little 


THE   QUARRY  149 

dune  refuge,  departed  his  transient  resting  place 
with  an  escort  of  dried  sedge  and  broken  sticks 
floating  beside  him.  The  return  of  the  tide  to  its 
strange,  moonmade  lair  in  the  vasty  deep,  taking 
with  it  its  reclaimed  outcasts,  was  accompanied 
with  a  runic  chorus  from  the  marsh  grass  and  the 
piles  of  wharves  and  ferry  slips.  The  strange,  flute- 
like  song  of  the  outgoing  tide  increased  as  the  hur- 
rying waters  retreated  through  the  outlets  of  the 
bay  and  the  current  became  stronger.  With  this 
funeral  music  and  his  sea-motley  garland  of 
flotsam,  the  dead  friend  of  Montgomery  floated 
from  Newark  Bay  through  the  Kill  von  Kull  to 
the  harbor  of  New  York. 

In  the  light  of  a  full  moon  the  white  disc  and 
star  of  "  honor  "  showed  on  the  left  sleeve  of  the 
gray  sack  covering  the  torso  of  the  corpse.  The 
big  tide  had  brought  Montgomery's  lifeless  friend 
to  the  time  of  his  accounting  with  the  living. 
This  one,  mighty  flood  and  ebb  of  water  meant 
the  uncovering  of  the  secrets  of  swamps,  mud  cav- 
erns and  the  slimy  interstices  of  wreckage. 

For  almost  every  day  of  the  year  one  human 
seeks  the  Lorelei  song  of  the  tide  that  flows  under 
the  bridges  and  over  the  river  tunnels  of  the  waters 


150  THE   QUARRY 

of  New  York.  Through  the  winter  many  are 
held  fastened  under  the  ice,  but  when  the  warm 
weather  comes  and  the  rise  of  the  sea  is  greatest, 
all  come  to  the  surface  and  drift  within  the  realm 
of  the  inquisitive  law. 

Among  the  scores  of  telephone  reports  from 
Harbor  Squad  A  at  Pier  Number  I,  North  River, 
during  this  busy  season  of  the  year  for  the  men  on 
the  police  boats,  one  read:  "  Body  of  convict 
found  floating  near  Tompkinsville,  Staten  Island. 
Sent  to  morgue." 

This  report  was  made  direct  to  Central  Office. 
Mike  Kearney  was  preparing  a  new  circular  to 
send  broadcast  and  stimulate  interest  in  the  re- 
capture of  James  Montgomery  when  the  desk 
lieutenant  called  him  and  showed  him  the  slip 
from  Harbor  A.  He  read  it  carefully  and  handed 
it  back,  then  put  his  unfinished  composition 
in  his  desk,  picked  up  his  weatherbeaten  derby 
and  departed  headquarters. 

That  Board  of  Health  institution,  the  morgue, 
rubs  elbows  with  Bellevue  Hospital  and  the 
Department  of  Charities  and  Correction,  at  the 
foot  of  East  Twenty-sixth  Street,  known  in  the 
East  Side  as  Misery  Lane.  Kearney  made  his 


THE   QUARRY  151 

way  to  this  highway  of  sorrow,  of  competing 
undertakers  offering  bargain  rates  in  shrouds,  and 
of  free  hospital  beds  for  the  poor  and  free  slabs 
for  the  dead  that  have  died  friendless. 

He  pushed  through  the  group  of  haggard  mothers 
seeking  the  bodies  of  daughters  who  had  disap- 
peared in  the  downward  drag  of  the  great  city's 
undertow,  and  asked  the  morgue  keeper  to  show 
him  the  clothes  taken  from  the  body  of  the  con- 
vict brought  in  by  the  harbor  police.  He  ex- 
amined them  and  found  the  white  disc  and  star 
Montgomery  had  won  by  five  years  of  exemplary 
conduct.  This  would  have  assured  a  careless 
worker  that  the  body  was  that  of  the  man  who 
had  escaped  only  recently  from  Sing  Sing.  But 
Kearney  was  no  careless  worker.  He  asked  to  be 
shown  the  body  itself  and  the  keeper  took  him  to 
the  damp,  circular  repository  for  the  city's  un- 
claimed dead. 

The  morgue  keeper  pulled  out  a  box  on  rollers 
from  its  desklike  casing  and  the  detective  looked 
at  the  face  of  the  dead  man.  Because  of  the  wear 
of  the  elements  he  could  make  no  satisfactory 
identification  of  the  features.  A  month  had  passed 
since  his  quarry  had  slipped  him. 


152  THE  QUARRY 

"  Just  a  minute,"  he  said  to  the  keeper. 

From  one  of  his  pockets  he  produced  a  little 
tin  box,  a  sheet  of  white  paper  and  a  brush  of 
camel's  hair.  The  box  contained  charcoal  powder. 
Kearney  reached  into  the  receptacle  of  the  dead 
body  and  pulled  out  the  right  hand.  He  dusted 
the  finger  tips  with  the  charcoal  and  pressed  them 
against  the  paper.  With  this  token  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  dead  man,  he  returned  to  police 
headquarters. 

The  Bertillon  records  gave  up  the  tallying  card 
for  the  finger  prints  of  James  Montgomery. 
Kearney  studied  the  official  record  and  the  print 
he  had  made  at  the  morgue,  and  then  smiled 
grimly. 

The  charcoal  prints  were  of  the  fingers  of  a 
different  man! 

He  went  back  to  his  desk  and  continued  the 
composition  of  his  new  circular. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AFTER  the  fourth  night  of  lonely  journeying 
beneath  the   stars  and  three  days  hidden 
in  forest  nooks,  drinking  from  brooks  and 
eating  sparely  from  his  little  stock  of  food,  Mont- 
gomery found  that  he  would  have  to  change  his 
plan  of  flight.    He  was  now  far  enough  from  the 
capital  of  the  Old  Dominion  to  feel  a  degree  of 
safety. 

He  kept  away  from  the  railroad  lines  and 
journeyed  ever  to  the  south,  finding  the  points  of 
the  compass  by  the  sun  in  the  morning  and  by  the 
pale  Northern  star  during  the  night.  This  kept 
him  off  from  the  larger  villages  with  organized 
police  systems  and  daily  newspapers.  The  farther 
he  got  from  civilization  on  a  large  scale,  the  deeper 
became  the  conviction  that  he  could  now  afford 
to  risk  travel  by  day.  Farmhouses  were  far  apart 
and  for  the  better  share  of  each  day  the  streets  of 
little  hamlets,  where  the  country  people  did  their 
trading,  were  deserted.  He  abandoned  living  in 


154  THE   QUARRY 

the  woods  under  shelters  knocked  up  hastily 
with  boughs  and  leaves  and  took  the  road  at  day- 
break one  morning,  his  tinker's  pack  over  his 
shoulder,  ready  to  be  dropped  and  put  in  use  at 
the  first  job  that  offered. 

The  whole  summer  was  spent  afoot  on  the 
highway  and  it  brought  to  his  being  that  tonic 
of  life  which  is  God-given  only,  the  calm  and  rest- 
ful spirit  which  develops  with  the  frequent  con- 
templation of  the  changes  of  the  seasons,  the  com- 
ing of  the  dawn  and  the  falling  of  the  dusk  on 
hills  and  valleys;  in  the  spring  the  nimbus  of  the 
approaching  resurrection  of  trees  and  flowers  and 
fields;  in  the  summer  the  burgeoning  of  the  wide 
and  fair  countryside  with  life  and  in  the  autumn 
falling  leaf  and  fading  tree. 

If  the  great  city,  which  sucks  from  adventuring 
and  plucky  youth  its  glory  of  red  blood  and  clean 
minds,  had  almost  annihilated  him,  as  a  boy  of 
twenty-one,  the  country  proved  kind  to  him  as  a 
man. 

In  many  a  pleasant  farmhouse  he  found  wel- 
come in  the  evening  after  a  day  of  usefulness. 
Frequently  the  warm  bed  under  the  shingles  and 
the  hearty  meals  offered  him  in  return  for  his 


THE   QUARRY  155 

labor  he  felt  to  be  wages  as  great  as  any  man  might 
desire.  He  met  kindliness  and  Godliness  at  every- 
hand. 

Under  his  skilful  fingers  old  garden  gates  took 
on  new  life  with  new  hinges  and  lost  their  dismal 
creakings;  pumps  that  had  become  choked  and 
wheezy  responded  to  the  touch  of  the  farmer  with 
ready  and  bounteous  outpourings  of  sparkling, 
cold  water;  implements  of  husbandry  ceased  to 
rattle  and  do  half  service;  doors,  windows,  cup- 
boards and  creaking  stairs  were  put  in  good  shape, 
to  the  delight  of  worried  housewives,  while  fas- 
cinated broods  of  children  clustered  about  the  sun- 
browned  stranger  and  watched  him  at  his  work. 

Sometimes  he  would  find  a  host  who  would 
keep  him  employed  for  a  week  or  ten  days.  On 
such  occasions  he  came  to  know  the  families  of 
the  Southern  planters  and  to  share  with  them  their 
simple  pleasures  and  their  quiet  devotion  to 
old  ideals  and  the  daily  tasks  before  them.  In 
every  tiny  farm  settlement  he  found  a  little  white 
steeple  of  a  clapboarded  church  topping  the  oaks 
and  pines  and  on  Sabbath  days  he  joined  these 
little  congregations,  offering  up  his  constant  prayer 
of  gratitude  for  his  deliverance. 


156  THE   QUARRY 

The  last  sickly  trace  of  the  prison  pallor  had 
left  him  quickly.  A  short  brown  beard  and  mus- 
tache had  grown  to  aid  the  change  of  his  appear- 
ance. The  large  brown  eyes  in  the  bearded  face 
gave  the  suggestion  of  one  who  had  suffered  much 
and  who  had  gained  the  essence  of  divinity. 

In  every  farmhouse  he  found  a  Bible,  that  book 
which  is  a  library  in  itself.  Being  a  tinker,  a 
creature  of  the  highways  and  byways,  he  could 
glimpse  and  cherish  the  beauties  of  the  poetry 
written"by  Isaiah  and  Amos  and  Micah.  Because 
of  the  inspiration  he  gained  from  these  old  poets 
of  Israel,  the  loveliness  of  nature  took  on  added 
glory.  Then,  too,  he  gained  access  during  the 
long,  quiet  evenings  to  other  books  in  the  houses 
where  the  stranger  was  made  welcome,  books 
that  were  sweet  and  old-fashioned,  with  love  and 
gentleness  pervading  their  every  page.  With  such 
reading  he  unconsciously  developed  intellectually 
and  upon  a  plane  that  would  surely  stamp  him  in 
maturer  years  a  gentle  man. 

This  wholesome,  if  itinerant,  life  gradually 
shaped  his  character  to  a  wonderfully  fine  com- 
bination of  saintliness  and  vigor.  The  dust  and 
turmoil  of  a  city  street  again  would  have  made  him 


THE   QUARRY  157 

reel  and  become  faint.  The  rush  and  confusion 
of  a  crowded  habitation  of  men  would  have  been 
to  him  a  veritable  court  for  dragons. 

The  daughters  of  men  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact  in  his  journeyings  were  clear-eyed,  sweet, 
old-fashioned  girls.  Their  laughter  was  as  the 
piccolo  music  of  shadowy  streams  over  pebbles. 
The  sun  had  daily  kissed  their  cheeks  and  their 
hair  from  babyhood  and  the  bloom  upon  their 
lips  was  sweeter  even  than  the  songs  they  sang  at 
vesper  time. 

All  womanhood  he  held  sacred  and  as  a  memorial 
to  the  mother  he  had  cherished.  He  was  as  yet 
to  meet  the  one  girl  who  would  so  stir  him  that  the 
sweet  pain  in  his  heart  would  make  him  think 
of  Jacob  lifting  his  voice  and  sobbing  at  the  sight 
of  Rachel. 

Where  the  five  years  in  prison  might  have 
dragged  him  down  to  a  grade  of  viciousness  that 
would  have  scarified  his  soul,  he  had  come  forth 
from  the  furnace  of  affliction  clean  and  a  strong 
man.  He  had  done  even  more.  He  had  so  lived 
in  a  cell  that  an  outcast  of  society  had  asked  him 
to  remember  him  in  his  prayers. 

Occasionally  he  would  feel  that  the  police  net 


158  THE   QUARRY 

from  Mulberry  Street  was  thrown  too  closely  to 
him.  Going  into  villages  for  supplies,  he  would 
hear  about  new  efforts  to  recapture  him  and  of 
new  circulars  sent  out  by  his  hunters.  On  such 
occasions  he  would  hasten  back  to  remote  roads 
and  farmhouses. 

Would  he  ever  be  able  to  get  far  enough  away 
from  his  implacable  pursuers  to  again  take  up 
his  work  with  machinery?  At  night  the  twinkle 
of  a  lantern  in  the  hands  of  a  countryman  thread- 
ing a  dark  road  would  bring  back  to  his  mind  the 
horror  of  that  moment  when  he  found  the  will- 
o'-the-wisp  lights  ahead  of  him  as  well  as  behind 
him,  as  he  ran  with  bleeding  feet  between  Ossining 
and  Tarrytown. 

He  had  taken  the  name  of  John  Nelson  and 
had  saved  every  penny  that  he  had  earned  with 
his  little  handful  of  tools.  After  making  long 
stops  in  various  farmhouses  during  the  autumn 
and  the  first  winter  of  his  regained  liberty,  he 
found  himself  on  the  boundary  of  Virginia  and 
North  Carolina. 

Ahead  of  him  were  the  great  cotton  mills  of 
the  South,  with  their  myriad  workers  and  with 
their  great  masses  of  the  most  modern  machinery 


THE   QUARRY  159 

turned  out  by  geniuses  in  invention.  In  this  great 
mountain  belt  of  industry  he  felt  that  he  would 
find  his  future  work. 

One  day  he  put  aside  his  humble  tinker's  kit 
and  applied  for  work  in  a  cotton  mill  as  a  machinist. 
A  year  had  passed  since  his  escape  from  the  prison 
on  the  Hudson.  He  felt  that  the  time  was  at  hand 
for  him  to  start  the  work  that  might  some  day 
bring  him  fortune  and  the  clearing  of  his  good 
name. 

John  Nelson  had  advanced  far  beyond  the 
circle  of  the  ordinary  man  of  his  craft  and  he 
could  have  pushed  rapidly  ahead  of  many  of  his 
fellow  employees  in  the  first  cotton  mill  where  he 
obtained  employment.  But  he  was  content  with 
obscurity  for  awhile  yet  and  he  knew  that  the 
time  would  not  be  wasted,  for  every  hour  of  it 
would  give  him  a  better  grasp  of  cotton  mill  work. 

He  lived  in  a  mill  town  that  seldom  saw  the 
coming  of  strangers  and  he  made  his  habitat 
among  the  poorer  class  of  employees,  preferring 
to  spend  his  board  money  as  a  means  of  help 
where  it  was  most  needed.  He  made  no  intimate 
friends  among  the  people,  concentrating  all  his 
effort  of  mind  in  the  study  of  mill  machinery 


160  THE   QUARRY 

and  in  reading  works  on  mechanical  engineering, 
which  he  borrowed  from  his  superintendent. 

Despite  his  effort  to  remain  in  the  background 
of  workers,  he  was  quickly  recognized  as  an  expert 
and  was  advanced  in  wages  as  well  as  in  the  im- 
portance of  his  tasks.  By  sheer  force  of  ability 
he  had  attained  the  degree  of  mechanical  engineer 
and  was  already  at  that  point  of  honest  attain- 
ment when  at  any  moment  he  might  be  called  to 
strip  off  his  overalls  and  step  to  the  desk  of  a  ten- 
thousand-a-year  man. 

Nelson  did  not  feel  that  this  first  mill  was  the 
place  for  his  ultimate  effort  to  reach  the  top.  He 
had  come  whence  no  man  knew.  He  had  no 
past  to  offer.  He  could  give  no  reference  of  any 
sort  as  to  his  life  or  character.  He  could  never 
tell  truthfully  where  he  had  gained  the  working 
foundations  for  the  knowledge  he  possessed. 

He  prepared  to  move  on  and  made  his  first 
request  for  a  letter  of  recommendation,  which  was 
gladly  given  by  his  superintendent.  With  this 
bit  of  paper  in  his  possession,  he  had  established 
a  past.  He  had  something  by  which  he  could 
identify  himself  as  John  Nelson,  mechanic.  No 
one  would  have  to  take  his  word  only;  he  could 


THE   QUARRY  161 

offer  this  reference.  The  few  kindly  words  of 
praise  written  at  his  request  were  more  precious 
to  him  than  silver  or  gold. 

The  garments  of  a  laborer  were  no  longer 
suitable.  He  parted  with  them  for  clothes  of 
better  texture.  His  old  pack  was  cast  aside  for- 
ever, and  in  its  place  was  a  heavy  trunk,  big 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  carry  his  wardrobe 
and  the  books  he  had  begun  to  buy  with  his  sa- 
vings. 

He  said  good-by  to  his  first  mill  and  took  the 
train  South,  crossing  the  North  Carolina  State 
line  into  the  Piedmont  section  of  South  Carolina. 

His  objective  was  the  mountain  city  of  Green- 
ville and  the  great  plant  of  the  Reedy  River  mills. 
These  mills  were  situated  outside  of  the  city  and 
were  famous  not  only  for  their  superb  equipment 
and  product,  but  also  for  the  administration  of 
their  labor  and  social  affairs.  They  made  a  com- 
munity by  themselves,  a  community  governed 
by  the  president  of  the  company,  a  humane, 
wealthy  and  capable  man.  Montgomery  had 
every  reason  to  believe  that  he  would  be  safer 
employed  with  the  Reedy  River  Company  than 
he  would  be  elsewhere  in  the  cotton  belt. 


162  THE   QUARRY 

He  sought,  first  of  all,  cover  from  his  pursuers, 
A  criminal  would  have  had  some  pleasure  in  the 
game  of  hide  and  seek  after  securing  such  a  good 
start  on  the  hounds  of  the  law.  Some,  as  many 
have  done  in  the  past,  would  have  run  big  chances 
and  visited  old  haunts  out  of  pure  bravado.  But 
Montgomery,  despite  his  prison  experience  and 
his  success  in  eluding  those  after  him,  knew  nothing 
of  the  excitement  and  thrill  of  the  life  of  the  law- 
less. The  police  had  fashioned  a  mock  stain  of 
blood  for  his  hands,  had  added  him  to  the  Gallery 
of  Rogues  and  had  cast  him  into  Sing  Sing,  but 
all  of  this  had  not  been  sufficient  to  make  him 
falter  in  the  path  of  clean  and  honest  living. 

He  left  the  train  at  Greenville  and  found  it  a 
thriving  little  city  resting  in  the  deep,  cool  shade 
of  the  Blue  Ridge  mountains.  He  looked  toward 
the  distant  giant  tumuli;  they  seemed  to  him  a 
wall  that  God  had  flung  up  against  his  pursuers 
and  as  a  mighty  stockade  against  the  evils  and 
miseries  of  the  outside  world. 

Through  the  little  city  flowed  the  river  after 
which  the  mills  were  named,  from  its  parent 
stream,  the  Saluda,  to  make  its  pleasant  way 
through  the  underbills  terracing  the  Piedmont. 


THE  QUARRY  163 

Peonies  and  roses,  faintly  fragrant  nasturtiums 
and  honeysuckle  made  sweet  the  homes  of  the 
dwellers  here,  while  beyond  the  city's  outskirts 
reared  the  tall  chimneys  of  the  mills,  where  he 
felt  sure  there  would  be  a  demand  for  his  skill, 
his  patience  and  his  inventive  genius. 

He  ordered  his  baggage  sent  to  the  hotel  near 
the  station  and  took  a  trolley  car  to  the  mills. 
He  found  the  superintendent,  Howard  Lansing, 
anxious  for  just  such  a  man,  satisfied  with  the 
letter  of  recommendation,  and  was  employed 
at  high  wages  immediately. 

Nelson  would  report  for  work  the  next  day. 
He  went  back  to  the  city  to  look  about  for  a  quiet, 
comfortable  and  remote  corner  that  he  could  call 
home.  His  heart  was  light  for  the  first  time  since 
that  dreadful  day  when  he  left  his  own  village 
home  and  journeyed  to  New  York. 

Here,  among  the  mountains,  he  would  make 
his  stand  and  his  fight.  Here  was  the  home  of 
John  Nelson. 

James  Montgomery  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HOWARD  LANSING,  who  had  immediate 
executive    charge    of   the    great  working 
force  of  the  Reedy  mills,   was  a   master 
both  of  man  and  machinery.     At  the  half  cen- 
tury mark  of  life,  he  had  come  to  admire  and  hold 
as  fine  two  things:   ability  and  decency. 

These  two  things  struck  cameolike  to  his  vision 
in  John  Nelson  who  had  applied  to  him  for  work, 
modestly,  as  a  plain  machinist.  The  restiveness 
which  usually  accompanies  capacity  for  work  and 
which  promises  development  or  creation  of  genius 
was  absent  in  the  newcomer  at  the  mills.  No 
tangle  of  a  million  threads  from  the  bobbins 
brought  an  exclamation  of  disgust  from  his  lips. 
No  solution  of  any  intricate  mechanical  problem 
caused  him  to  exult.  If  there  was  anything  wrong 
in  the  carding  room,  with  its  almost  ceaseless 
flow  of  snowlike  cotton  and  its  clamor  of  mighty 
steel  cogs  and  rollers,  he  would  set  about  remedying 
the  defect  with  the  same  skill  and  patience  that 


THE   QUARRY  165 

a  surgeon  would  show  in  a  moment  of  individual, 
human  crisis. 

Nelson  was  Lansing's  kind  of  a  man  and  the 
superintendent  invited  him  to  come  and  live  at 
his  home.  Both  men  were  taciturn,  appreciative 
but  withholding  their  words,  as  do  most  men  who 
handle  and  care  for  the  wonderfully  animated 
sinews  of  industry,  which  speak  only  with  their 
product.  And  yet  each  knew  in  a  very  short 
time  that  there  was  appreciativeness  and  kindly 
feeling  in  the  other. 

Nelson  was  glad  to  accept  Lansing's  offer  and 
transferred  his  belongings  to  the  superintendent's 
comfortable  home  on  the  curving,  red  road  that 
runs  from  Greenville  upward  toward  Paris  Moun- 
tain. The  home  was  spacious,  finely  placed  upon 
a  site  which  made  every  window  a  stall  in  God's 
theatre;  the  flower  garden  held  every  blossom 
of  the  mountain  country  and  the  library  was 
filled  with  books  that  were  old  and  worn  friends 
of  their  studious  owner. 

Mrs.  Lansing  welcomed  the  stranger,  and  her 
little  brood  of  four  children  soon  accepted  him  as 
a  member  of  the  family.  His  bedroom  windows 
opened  to  the  blue  mountains,  which  cut  him  off 


166  THE   QUARRY 

from  the  rest  of  the  world.  In  these  surroundings, 
which  gave  him  almost  the  full  charm  of  domesti- 
city, Nelson  started  his  new  life  with  a  growing 
sense  of  security.  He  began  to  feel  that  it  had 
been  ordained  for  him  to  suffer  in  purgatory  so 
that  he  would  better  realize  the  joys  of  heaven. 
With  his  work  in  the  mills  and  his  studies  in 
Lansing's  home,  the  midsummer  passed  swiftly 
and  the  solemn  beauty  of  autumn  came  over  the 
land. 

One  day,  inspecting  the  work  of  her  servants, 
Mrs.  Lansing  found  pinned  upon  the  wall  in  Nel- 
son's bedroom  this  verse,  which  he  had  found  in 
his  random  reading  of  the  poets: 

Content  thee,  howsoe'er,  whose  days  are  done; 
There  lies  not  any  troubled  thing  before, 
Nor  sight  nor  sound  to  war  against  thee  more, 

For  whom  all  winds  are  quiet  as  the  sun, 
All  waters  as  the  shore. 

There  was  no  idle  moment  in  the  day's  calendar 
of  hours  and  minutes  for  John  Nelson.  He  worked 
not  for  the  pay  that  was  given,  but  the  pay  was 
increased  from  time  to  time  and,  monthly,  his 
earnings  went  to  swell  a  bank  account  that  reached 
three  figures. 


THE   QUARRY  167 

Two  nights  of  each  week  the  light  in  his  room 
burned  until  after  midnight.  On  these  nights  he 
labored  at  his  desk  on  the  plans  of  a  device  that 
would  mean  the  saving  of  thousands  of  dollars 
a  year  in  waste  from  the  carding  machines  of  the 
mills.  From  his  first  day's  employment  the 
massive,  lumbering  carding  machinery  had  been 
to  him  as  a  lout  of  a  boy.  Its  great  strength  and 
mighty  roar  were  impressive  but  for  every  revo- 
lution of  the  huge  rollers  that  caught  the  flow 
of  precious  cotton  there  was  waste.  It  filled  the 
air  with  lint,  choking  the  operatives  as  they 
worked.  A  new  adjustment  of  certain  parts  of 
the  machinery  was  the  problem  engaging  his 
mind.  He  wrought  over  his  plans  until  he  felt 
that  they  would  stand  the  proving  test  of  a  model; 
then  the  accumulated  wages  stood  him  well,  as 
a  forgotten  friend  sometimes  stands  a  man.  He 
had  the  model  built  and  installed  in  the  attic  of 
the  Lansing  home. 

Power  was  obtained  by  connecting  a  small 
dynamo  with  wires  supplying  the  house  with 
electric  lights.  Cotton  was  brought  from  the 
mills  and  one  night  Lansing  and  Nelson  sat  for  an 
hour  watching  the  tiny  carding  machine  meet  the 


168  THE  QUARRY 

new  demands  of  economy  put  upon  it.  There  was 
not  an  ounce  of  cotton  waste! 

Nelson  oiled  the  model,  replenished  it  with  a  new 
supply  of  cotton,  and  for  another  hour  the  two  men 
sat  and  watched  it  work. 

There  was  no  clapping  of  hands  upon  shoulders, 
no  outbursts  of  enthusiasm,  although  the  tests 
made  certain  the  fact  that  the  man  who  had  asked 
Lansing  for  work  but  a  few  months  before  was  to 
be  made  rich  by  the  product  of  his  genius  and  his 
patient  toil. 

"  It's  all  right,  old  man,"  said  the  mill  super- 
intendent. 

Nelson  nodded. 

"  If  you  don't  mind  I'll  call  up  Mr.  Bryan,  the 
president  of  the  company,  and  inform  him," 
suggested  Lansing. 

He  hurried  down  the  attic  stairs  and  soon  had 
the  president  on  the  telephone.  He  told  him 
briefly  what  he  had  seen  the  model  accomplish, 
and  Mr.  Byran  replied  that  he  would  motor  .over 
to  his  house  immediately. 

The  mill  president,  a  gray  and  courtly  gentle- 
man, reached  the  house  within  a  half  hour.  It 
was  early  evening  and  the  children  were  not 


THE   QUARRY  169 

yet  abed.  With  their  mother  they  had  listened 
to  the  hum  of  the  working  model  under  the 
eaves.  All  were  fascinated  with  the  idea  that  in 
their  home  the  kindly  and  silent  stranger  had 
achieved  a  mechanical  triumph.  They  trooped 
up-stairs  behind  Mr.  Bryan  and  the  little  throng 
gathered  about  the  machinery  to  see  it  in  opera- 
tion. 

"Mr.  Bryan,  this  is  Mr.  Nelson,"  said  Lan- 
sing, introducing  the  president  to  his  fellow 
worker.  "  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  him.  I 
thought  his  achievement  of  such  importance 
that  no  time  should  be  lost  in  informing  yon 
of  it." 

Mr.  Bryan  extended  his  hand  to  Nelson. 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,"  he  said,  "  and  I  hope 
that  your  invention  will  prove  all  that  Mr.  Lan- 
sing expects  of  it.  He  is  quite  a  partisan  of 
yours,  though.  He  likes  to  sing  your  praises, 
Mr.  Nelson." 

The  model  was  ready  for  its  third  test.  Nelson 
switched  on  the  current. 

Mr.  Bryan  sat,  watching  it  in  operation, 
stroking  his  white  mustache  reflectively  and  peer- 
ing with  keen,  blue  eyes  at  the  new  cogs  and  rollers 


170  THE  QUARRY 

fashioned  under  the  direction  of  this  mechanic 
who  had  crossed  the  North  Carolina  border  to 
join  his  army  of  workers. 

"  We  have  given  it  two  hours'  work  already," 
explained  Lansing,  "  and  have  found  no  waste 
whatever.  There  is  no  lint  in  the  air,  as  you  may 
notice.  That  in  itself  means  a  great  deal  for  the 
health  of  the  operatives." 

Mr.  Bryan  nodded. 

An  hour  passed  and  Mrs.  Lansing  gathered  her 
brood  about  her  skirts  and  took  them,  tip-toeing, 
down-stairs  and  to  bed.  The  three  men  were  left 
together  when  the  last  of  the  cotton  was  fed  the 
machine. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Nelson,"  said  the 
mill  president,  as  he  prepared  to  depart.  "  Your 
new  carding  machine  will  make  you  a  great  deal 
of  fame  among  millmen.  It  will  make  you  a  com- 
fortable fortune  also,  I  am  sure,  and  it  will  benefit 
mill  workers.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  think 
that  one  of  my  own  men  has  accomplished  this 
and  I  shall  aid  you  all  that  I  can  in  seeing  that 
your  patent  rights  are  protected." 

Lansing  and  Nelson  saw  Mr.  Bryan  to  his 
machine  and  then  went  to  the  library. 


THE  QUARRY  171 

"  I  hope  we  don't  lose  you  when  the  money 
comes  in,"  said  Lansing. 

"  Lose  me? "  echoed  Nelson  with  a  smile. 
"  This  is  my  home  and  I  hope  to  live  and  die  here. 
I  came  here  friendless  and  have  found  friends  and 
fortune." 


CHAPTER  XX 

NELSON'S  quiet,  even  grave  demeanor,  as 
he  faced  the  promise  of  almost  immediate 
wealth  and  success,  caught  the  interest 
of  Mr.  Bryan,  who  realized  that  the  machinist  and 
inventor  was  high  above  the  average  in  manhood 
and  intellectual  capacity. 

On  the  other  hand,  Nelson  felt  that  Mr.  Bryan 
was  a  man  of  the  highest  integrity  and  that  he 
could  be  trusted  as  a  father  would  be  trusted  by 
his  sons.  The  mill  president  lost  no  time  in 
having  Nelson's  invention  fully  protected  by 
patents.  One  of  the  wealthiest  of  Southern  capital- 
ists, it  was  a  simple  matter  for  him  to  call  the 
attention  of  the  manufacturers  of  mill  machinery 
to  the  work  of  his  employee.  In  due  time,  Nelson 
was  called  to  the  president's  office  and  there  met 
the  representatives  of  the  firm  that  would  put 
his  invention  on  the  market. 

For  the  right  to  manufacture  and  sell  his  im- 
proved carding  machine  Nelson  was  paid  ten 


THE   QUARRY  173 

thousand  dollars  cash  and  given  a  royalty  on  the 
sales. 

When  the  transaction  was  closed  and  the  money 
deposited  in  his  bank,  John  Nelson  felt  that  the 
dream  of  his  prison  days  was  beginning  to  materi- 
alize. The  foundation  of  the  fortune  necessary 
for  him  to  prosecute  a  world-wide  search  for  the 
man  for  whose  crime  he  had  suffered  was  laid. 
Harried  and  hounded,  he  had  never  ceased  to 
struggle,  had  never  quailed  and  had  never  given 
up  the  hope  that  some  day  the  black  cloud  cast 
over  his  life  by  the  police  would  be  lifted,  and 
that  from  his  hands  would  be  washed  the  mock 
blood  stain  put  upon  them.  His  aim  was  higher 
than  money  and  ease.  To  pile  up  a  fortune  was 
only  a  detail  of  the  task  before  him.  All  his  in- 
telligence and  patience  would  be  tried  when  it 
came  to  spending  that  fortune  in  the  effort  to 
rid  himself  of  the  stigma  of  being  James  Mont- 
gomery, alias  John  Nelson,  murderer  and  es- 
caped convict. 

His  brain  was  already  busy  with  the  incuba- 
tion of  another  inventive  idea.  His  gait  over  the 
course  to  the  cherished  goal  was  made  and  there 
would  be  no  flagging,  no  more  than  there  had 


174  THE  QUARRY 

been  when  he  made  his  brave  dash  for  liberty, 
and  sweat  and  blood  poured  from  him. 

The  Sabbath  following  the  disposal  of  his 
patent  rights  was  a  day  of  serious  and  grateful 
contemplation  to  Nelson.  He  attended  service 
with  the  Lansings  and  then  shut  himself  in  his 
room.  Surely,  he  thought  during  his  moments 
of  introspection,  the  world  is  good  and  fair.  Hu- 
man institutions  might  work  cruelly  and  some 
of  those  people  who  were  designed  to  operate 
them  might  be  bloodless  and  inhumane,  but  there 
seemed  to  be  some  mysterious  guiding  force  that 
had  led  him  to  this  beautiful  little  corner  of  the 
earth  where  the  men  were  kind  and  just.  He  had 
been  taken  from  under  the  wheels  of  the  Jugger- 
naut of  society,  the  Law,  before  the  heart  had 
been  crushed  out  of  him.  A  devout  man,  retain- 
ing the  simple  and  beautiful  faith  of  an  old-fash- 
ioned mother,  he  attributed  all  this  to  the  mercy 
of  God. 

His  reflections  were  brought  to  an  end  by  a 
call  from  Mrs.  Lansing,  informing  him  that  Mr. 
Bryan  wanted  him  on  the  telephone.  He  hastened 
to  the  instrument  in  the  hall  below  and  answered 
a  pleasant  greeting  from  the  mill  president. 


THE   QUARRY  175 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  the  people  you  signed 
with,"  Mr.  Bryan  informed  him  over  the  wires, 
"  and  they  desire  to  know  whether  they  may  have 
an  option  on  your  second  invention.  They  are 
greatly  pleased  with  the  outlook  under  your  first 
contract  and  seem  to  think  that  you  will  do  big 
things  in  time  to  come." 

"  The  next  one  may  be  a  failure,"  said  Nelson, 
with  a  little  laugh  of  pleasure  at  the  praise  given 
him. 

"  I  would  like  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  you," 
suggested  Mr.  Bryan.  "  If  you  have  nothing 
else  to  do,  come  over  to  supper.  My  car  is  handy; 
suppose  I  run  over  for  you?  " 

"Thank  you;  I  shall  be  glad  to  spend  the  after- 
noon with  you." 

"  Better  still,"  Mr.  Bryan  added,  "  get  your 
things  together  and  spend  the  evening  with  us. 
Then  we  can  talk  into  the  night  and  I'll  take  you 
in  to  the  mills  with  me  in  the  morning." 

Nelson  promised  to  be  ready  and  left  the  in- 
strument to  pack  his  suit-case. 

Mrs.  Lansing,  with  motherly  care,  supervised 
the  hasty  packing,  seeing  to  it  that  he  forgot 
none  of  the  essentials  of  toilet  and  that  he  carried 


176  THE   QUARRY 

with  him  the  best  of  his  linen.  Within  half  an 
hour  Nelson  was  with  the  mill  president  in  his 
motor,  speeding  over  the  hard,  red  clay  roads  to- 
ward his  home. 

The  autumn  was  well  advanced.  The  leaves  and 
vines  of  the  forests  through  which  they  traveled 
were  touched  with  gold  and  bronze  and  crimson. 

The  Bryan  home  was  in  the  center  of  a  mag- 
nificent estate  of  a  thousand  acres,  through  which 
flowed  a  branch  of  the  Saluda  River.  Its  well- 
tilled  fields  had  yielded  their  crops  for  the  year 
and  its  granaries  were  filled.  The  sheen  of  sleek, 
blooded  cattle  showed  in  the  sunlight  in  the  little 
valley  through  which  the  stream  wound  with 
many  graceful  curves.  In  the  distance,  amid 
many  majestic  and  ancient  shade  trees,  the  white 
pillars  of  the  mansion  gleamed. 

The  motor  swung  through  a  wide,  garden  gate 
and  pulled  up  as  cheerful  cries  of  welcome  came 
to  the  occupants  from  the  family  assembled  on 
the  piazza. 

"Here  we  are!"  cried  Mr.  Bryan,  alighting 
from  the  car. 

He  ran  up  the  piazza,  steps,  Nelson  following, 
to  a  stately  woman  with  silvery  hair. 


THE   QUARRY  177 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  this  is  our  guest,  Mr. 
Nelson.  And  this  is  my  eldest  boy,  Jim,"  went 
on  Mr.  Bryan,  after  Nelson  had  greeted  his  hostess. 
"  He  is  just  your  age,  I  should  think,  Mr.  Nelson. 
And  here  is  Miss  Molly  Bryan,  my  daughter." 

Nelson  turned  from  James  Bryan  to  his  sister 
and  looked  into  a  smiling,  girlish  face.  To  him 
her  eyes  seemed  to  be  patches  of  blue  clipped  from 
the  heavens.  The  sunlight  of  youth  and  a  light 
heart  was  in  them.  Her  hair  was  gold,  fine  spun 
and  piled  high  on  her  shapely  head.  Her  cheeks 
were  rich  in  coloring,  like  the  cheeks  of  English 
lassies,  and  her  lips  were  sweet  and  full. 

Although  there  lurked  in  her  constant  smile 
the  coquetry  that  is  the  possession  of  all  pretty 
girls  of  twenty,  she  had  the  grace  of  bearing  of  her 
mother,  a  wide  brow  and  a  chin  that  suggested 
strength  of  character  and  determination. 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  the  famous  Mr.  Nelson," 
she  said  pleasantly,  as  she  studied  his  face  for 
a  moment.  "  We  have  heard  father  speak  of 
your  inventive  work  so  often.  He  says  that  you 
are  a  wizard  with  machinery." 

Nelson  felt  his  face  grow  hot.  All  that  he  had 
known  of  human  affection  was  the  great  love 


178  THE   QUARRY 

that  his  mother  had  given  him  and  the  dumb, 
animal-like  devotion  of  the  old  convict  who  had 
helped  him  escape  from  Sing  Sing.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  caress  in  the  limpid  eyes  of  this  lovely  girl 
before  him.  His  heart  beat  wildly  within  him; 
the  warm  touch  of  her  hand  sent  a  thrill  through 
his  whole  being. 

A  strange  feeling  of  exaltation  came  over  him. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  journeyed  for  years  through 
a  parched  and  barren  land  and  had  come  suddenly 
upon  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  in  a  fair  and  smiling 
country.  A  joy  so  profound  and  pure  that  it 
left  him  speechless  and  amazed  stirred  in  his  breast. 
The  faint  line  that  separates  the  emotions  that 
bring  tears  and  smiles  was  drawn  for  him.  Pain 
shot  through  his  heart,  as  if  an  arrow  had  pierced 
it. 

"I  —  I  —  didn't  know  that  I  had  become 
famous,"  he  managed  to  stammer. 

She  realized  his  bewilderment  and  from  his 
eyes  caught  the  confession  that  suddenly,  swiftly 
and  unexpectedly  he  had  met  the  woman  he  was 
to  love. 

"  Oh,  but  father  knows  all  about  machinery 
and  he  says  that  you  are  a  wizard,"  she  laugh- 


THE   QUARRY  179 

ingly  protested,  the  color  in  her  cheeks  deep- 
ening. 

"  Molly,"  reproved  the  mother,  "  Mr.  Nelson 
has  not  yet  had  time  to  get  the  dust  of  travel  from 
him  and  here  you  are  chaffing  him  already." 

The  music  of  Molly's  laughter  lingered  in  his 
ears  as  Nelson  followed  his  host.  As  they  passed 
through  the  wide  entrance  hall  of  the  mansion, 
he  saw  to  his  left  the  great  dining-room  with  its 
open  fireplace,  its  stately  mahogany,  its  wealth 
of  silver  and  cut  glass.  In  the  hall  were  hung 
old  portraits  of  the  members  of  the  family  in  days 
long  gone.  All  about  him  was  evidence  of  cul- 
ture and  refinement  acquired  by  generations  of 
training  and  right  living. 

"  My  boy,  Jim,  is  a  lawyer,"  Mr.  Bryan  told 
Nelson.  "  We  shall  be  busy  on  some  other 
legal  matters  before  we  can  take  up  the  question 
of  your  next  invention.  I'll  leave  you  to  the  care 
of  Molly.  She  is  a  great  walker  and  I'll  warrant 
you  that  when  she  brings  you  back  from  a  tour 
of  the  place  you  will  have  a  splendid  appetite 
for  supper." 

At  this  prospect  Nelson  made  his  toilet  with 
the  eagerness  of  a  boy  and  appeared  on  the  piazza. 


180  THE   QUARRY 

in  a  few  moments.  Molly  was  waiting  for  him, 
eager  for  a  tramp  over  fields  and  through  woods 
and  the  opportunity  to  find  out  more  of  the  nature 
of  the  grave,  bearded,  young  inventor  given  in 
her  charge  for  the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  opening  of  John  Nelson's  heart  to  the 
first  demand  of  love  found  it  clean  and 
unmarked  by  false  passion.  Its  response 
to  the  mystically  sent  message  from  the  soul  of 
Molly  Bryan  was  such  as  the  heart  of  a  boy 
makes  when  the  pang  of  first  love  strikes  him. 

There  was  no  thought  of  sex  to  obtrude  itself 
and  claim  its  creature-portion  of  a  lover's  para- 
dise. The  man's  wholesome  nature  had  been 
affected  by  only  one  other  woman.  The  hands  of 
a  good  mother  had  swept  the  strings  of  his  heart 
and,  as  a  lute  suspended,  it  had  vibrated  even 
until  now,  when  the  second  woman  entered  his 
life  to  fill  it  with  music. 

Walking  at  his  side,  over  paths  heavy  with 
fallen  leaves,  the  incense  of  fall  wild  flowers  and 
the  fast-gathering  loam  making  sadly  sweet  the 
afternoon  air  of  the  waning  autumn  season,  she 
seemed  to  him  less  of  earth  than  heaven.  The 
rustle  of  the  crimson  and  golden  leaves  under  their 


182  THE  QUARRY 

feet  drowned  the  soft  sounds  of  her  garments.  He 
heard  only  her  voice;  he  felt  only  the  appreciation 
of  the  sanctity  of  her  presence.  To  him  she  was  a 
creature  that  God  had  fashioned  after  fashioning 
the  lilies,  the  white  of  the  petals  and  the  gold  of 
the  stamens  still  upon  His  kindly  hands  to  make 
pure  her  soul  and  gild  her  hair. 

When  he  dared  speak  to  her,  he  had  to  make  an 
effort  to  keep  his  sonorous  voice  from  trembling. 
She  felt,  instinctively,  the  effect  that  her  nearness 
had  upon  the  quiet,  modest  companion  of  her 
walk  and  Molly  Bryan  accepted  with  a  feeling 
akin  to  awe  the  tribute  it  implied. 

Her  buoyancy  of  spirit  was  not  the  efferves- 
cence of  a  light  mind  but  of  a  light  heart,  a  heart 
that  had  never  known  sorrow  or  pain  or  sin.  Her 
stately  mother  had  lived  at  a  time  when  Southern 
youth  had  enjoyed  no  frivolity.  Four  bloody 
years  of  awful  strife,  four  years  of  the  agony  of 
suspense  while  a  "  Cause  "  was  being  fought  out, 
four  years  of  sewing  for  hospitals  in  the  field  and 
in  the  towns  had  brought  the  mother  of  Molly 
Bryan  to  womanhood  and  to  wifehood  and  mother- 
hood equipped  as  the  mothers  of  Sparta  were 
equipped. 


THE   QUARRY  183 

Nelson  would  have  been  glad  to  have  remained 
silent  in  the  possession  of  these  few  first  hours  of 
her  presence,  and  had  she  been  as  untrained  and 
as  uncouth  as  he  was  in  the  social  demands,  he 
would  have  let  no  word  escape  his  lips. 

Not  knowing  the  depth  of  his  nature  and  guess- 
ing nothing  of  the  tragedy  of  his  life,  she  attributed 
his  taciturnity  to  shyness.  She  soon  found  a 
way  to  unloosen  his  tongue. 

"  It  is  glorious  in  the  Indian  Summer,"  she 
said,  as  they  paused  to  feast  their  eyes  upon  a 
mingling  of  gold  and  crimson  leaves,  "  but  in  the 
spring  it  is  even  more  beautiful  through  all  this 
country.  Before  the  snow  disappears,  the  trail- 
ing arbutus  is  to  be  found  on  the  mountainsides." 

The  simple  pleasures  of  the  road,  when  he  had 
traveled  as  a  poor  tinker  in  his  flight  from  the 
North  to  this  haven,  had  brought  him  the  joyful 
knowledge  of  growing  wild  things.  In  the  high- 
ways he  had  come  to  know  the  flowers  and  while 
resting  in  his  enforced  vagabondage  he  had  found 
delight  in  random  volumes  of  the  poets,  who  had 
come  to  know  the  beauties  of  nature  before  him. 

She  lured  him  from  his  silence  with  questions 
about  trees  and  flowers  and  brought  from  him  his 


184  THE  QUARRY 

simple  praise  of  all  that  was  so  freely  given  to  him 
who  would  but  open  his  eyes  and  look  about  him 
with  discernment.  He  had  read  among  the  poets 
of  Israel  that  the  earth  was  but  the  footstool  of 
God.  He  quoted  the  passage  and  added  that  no 
finer  brocade  was  ever  designed  or  conceived  than 
that  made  by  the  fields  and  the  woods. 

She  listened  to  him  eagerly  and  coaxed  him 
with  questions  when  he  faltered  and  seemed 
suddenly  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  ac- 
tually talking  to  her. 

The  sun  had  gone  across  the  mountains  into 
the  Tennessee  country  and  beyond  when  they 
returned  to  the  Bryan  home.  The  candles  were 
lighted  in  the  old  girandoles  upon  the  walls  of 
the  dining-room  and  the  logs  of  oak  and  hickory 
and  pine,  above  a  bed  of  gray  ashes,  were  making 
the  shadows  dance  fantastically  at  their  feet. 

The  supper  hour,  with  Molly  seated  at  his 
side,  the  charm  of  a  contented  family  circle  and 
the  hospitable  attentions  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bryan 
put  Nelson  at  ease. 

"It  will  not  be  necessary  to  worry  longer  about 
the  proposition  of  your  manufacturers  to  secure 
an  option  on  your  next  invention,"  Mr.  Bryan 


THE  QUARRY  185 

told  Nelson,  as  they  left  the  table.  "  They  sent 
along  a  contract  and  Jim  has  gone  over  it  care- 
fully. Jim  thinks  that  it  is  very  fair  and  that  it 
will  be  to  your  advantage  to  close  with  them." 

Nelson  thanked  his  employer. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  for  me,  Nelson,"  replied  Mr. 
Bryan.  "  If  your  brains  improve  the  cotton  in- 
dustry, you  are  not  the  only  beneficiary.  Every 
device  that  your  science  produces  will  bring  benefit 
to  all  of  us.  God  speed  your  work." 

"  I  have  hope  of  accomplishing  a  great  deal 
more,"  Nelson  told  Mr.  Bryan.  They  had  made 
their  way  to  the  mill  president's  library  and  were 
seated  about  his  hearth.  "  My  work  is  my  one 
pleasure  in  life,"  he  continued.  "  I  am  only  a 
beginner,  but  each  year  and  the  advantage  of 
working  in  your  splendid  plant  will  give  me  equip- 
ment for  serious  efforts  in  invention." 

"  Your  first  invention  has  made  you  practi- 
cally independent,  so  far  as  wages  go,"  said  Mr. 
Bryan,  "  and  I  must  confess  that  I  am  a  little 
disturbed  on  that  account.  I  would  like  you  to 
remain  with  us.  In  a  very  little  while  I  may  be 
able  to  offer  you  the  general  managership.  New 
mills  are  to  be  built  in  the  adjoining  county  and 


186  THE  QUARRY 

Lansing  and  the  present  vice-president  and  general 
manager  will  be  sent  there  to  get  them  going." 

"  It  is  a  very  high  compliment  you  pay  me,  Mr. 
Bryan,"  Nelson  replied.  "  I  had  no  intention  of 
ever  leaving  Greenville.  I  hope  that  I  shall  be 
found  worthy  of  your  belief  in  my  capacity." 

The  two  chatted  until  bedtime,  Mr.  Bryan  en- 
joying more  than  one  cigar  as  he  studied  Nelson 
and  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  make 
no  mistake  in  advancing  him  until  he  joined  the 
board  of  directors  of  his  company  and  became 
his  right-hand  man  in  the  operation  of  the  great 
plant  under  his  care. 

Molly  came  and  kissed  her  father  good  night, 
paused  to  laugh  and  chat  for  a  few  seconds  and 
departed,  Nelson  following  her  from  the  library 
and  going  to  his  room. 

As  she  ascended  the  stairs,  Molly  paused  to 
wave  her  hand  to  him  and  smile  her  good  night. 
She  held  a  lighted  taper  in  one  hand  and  shaded 
the  flame  from  the  draught  with  the  other.  The 
light  shone  on  her  pretty  face  as  she  smiled  on  the 
shadowy  stair. 

Nelson  went  to  his  room.  Her  thoughts  must 
have  followed  him,  for  he  seemed  to  feel  her  pres- 


THE   QUARRY  187 

ence  as  he  stood  at  an  open  window  and  stared 
out  into  the  darkness.  He  was  in  love,  deeply, 
wonderfully,  tragically  in  love. 

"  What  would  he  not  do,  what  could  he  not 
do  to  gain  her,  to  have  her  and  to  hold  her  through 
life  and  through  death!  "  he  said  to  himself.  And 
yet,  as  he  stood  at  the  window,  trying  to  master 
himself,  he  realized  the  barrier  that  separated 
them.  If  she  came  to  him  to  share  her  life  with 
his,  she  would  enter  a  cloud  without  a  silver 
lining. 

In  the  records  of  the  courts  of  the  land  he  was 
written  down  as  a  convicted  murderer.  A  price 
was  upon  his  head!  A  human  bloodhound  was 
snuffing  the  world  over  for  a  scent  that  would 
fetch  him  to  bay.  The  curse  that  was  upon  him 
would  be  spread  with  greater  capacity  for  hurt  to 
his  wife  and  to  their  children  and  their  children's 
children. 

There  was  one  way  and  one  way  only  to  lead 
him  to  happiness.  With  the  wealth  he  gathered 
he  would  prosecute  a  hunt  for  the  real  murderer. 
He  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  set 
about  this  task.  A  large  reward  might  aid  in 
bringing  about  the  capture  of  the  man.  But  who 


188  THE   QUARRY 

would  offer  it?  Detectives  might  be  employed 
in  every  city  of  the  country  to  seek  him  out,  but 
who  would  employ  them?  Menace  most  dreadful 
would  be  his  the  moment  he  stirred  from  the 
cover  he  had  found  in  this  peaceful  mill  city. 

He  sank  in  a  chair,  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands  and  fought  to  choke  down  the  sobs  that 
rose  in  his  throat. 

After  all  he  was  nothing  but  an  escaped  convict! 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AFTER  his  visit  to  the  Bryans  and  his 
meeting  with  Molly,  Nelson  struggled 
heroically  to  put  aside  thoughts  of  love. 

He  sought  to  divert  his  mind  by  charitable  work 
among  the  poor  and  ignorant  of  the  millhands. 
The  poverty  and  distress  that  come,  especially 
to  children,  from  shiftless  and  intemperate  parents 
could  not  be  eradicated  by  formal  efforts.  The 
company's  free  school  dragged  along  in  the  dol- 
drums, the  children  of  the  operatives  preferring 
to  work  at  the  bobbins  and  their  parents  en- 
couraging them  to  abandon  their  books.  Few  of 
the  mill  families  put  aside  any  of  their  earnings 
for  rainy  days. 

Nelson  began  to  give  a  part  of  each  day  to 
helping  those  who  were  in  dire  need,  in  seeing  that 
the  sick  were  healed  and  that  the  hungry  were 
fed. 

It  was  while  on  one  of  these  little  journeys, 
which  he  made  secretly,  that  he  again  came  in 


190  THE   QUARRY 

contact  with  Molly  Bryan.  He  found  her  strug- 
gling to  straighten  out  the  affairs  of  a  family  in 
one  of  the  bleak  little  cottages  provided  for  the 
workers.  The  father  of  the  family  had  gone  off 
with  another  woman.  The  mother  had  just  added 
another  baby  to  her  already  large  brood  and  there 
was  only  the  meager  pay  of  the  two  oldest  children 
to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

He  found  Molly  playing  the  part  of  a  minister- 
ing angel  in  this  misery-encumbered  home.  With 
one  of  her  father's  servants  she  had  made  the 
place  clean,  had  brought  flowers  to  the  mother's 
room  and  food  to  the  bare  pantry.  A  physician 
had  taken  charge  of  the  patient  and  the  new  baby, 
and  the  girl  had  paused  to  rest  in  her  work  of 
charity.  She  was  flushed  and  tired  as  she  sat 
with  rather  grimy  hands  in  the  living  room.  Her 
golden  hair  had  tumbled  about  her  ears  and  her 
skirts  were  still  pinned  high  above  her  boot 
tops. 

"  Oh!  "  she  cried  in  surprise,  as  Nelson  entered 
the  room. 

He  started  back,  astonished  and  embarrassed. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Bryan,"  he  apologized. 
"  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here.  I  under- 


THE   QUARRY  191 

stood  that  this  family  was  in  trouble  and  I  came 
over  to  see  what  could  be  done." 

"  And  so  did  I,"  she  said.  "  I  have  just  fin- 
ished straightening  out  things.  Turn  around 
and  look  out  of  the  door  until  I  make  myself 
presentable." 

He  wheeled  about  and  she  took  the  pins  from 
her  skirts  and  straightened  her  hair  before  a 
cracked  and  warped  mirror. 

"  Now,  you  may  turn  around  again,"  she  said, 
going  to  him. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  suggested  solicitously. 

"  Not  very." 

"  Have  you  been  here  all  the  morning?  " 

"  Yes;  I  give  two  days  a  week  to  the  cottages, 
helping  as  much  as  I  can  those  who  need  help." 

He  hesitated,  questioning  himself  whether  to 
tell  her  that  he  hoped  to  use  some  of  his  money 
in  the  same  work. 

"  I  thought  that  I  would  like  to  help,  too,  when 
such  cases  as  this  arose,"  he  said  finally. 

"  I  shall  take  you  as  an  assistant,"  she  told 
him,  looking  up  into  his  eyes.  "  I  knew  that  you 
had  a  big  heart  the  moment  I  saw  you.  What  is 
there  that  made  me  think  you  a  man  of  sacrifice?  " 


192  THE   QUARRY 

"I  —  sacrifice?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  something  told  me  that  you  were  the 
kind  of  man  to  lay  down  his  life  for  his  fellow 
creatures." 

"  I  would  like  to  help  others  as  much  as  possible 
because,  perhaps,  I  have  been  helped  and  cannot 
forget  it,"  he  replied  quietly. 

"  I  heard  in  another  cottage  that  you  had 
paid  the  fines  of  two  brothers  who  had  quarreled 
and  had  been  arrested,  and  that  you  had  made 
them  go  in  peace  together,"  she  said.  "  Did  you 
do  that?" 

"  It  was  little  to  do." 

"  And  I  heard  that  you  had  pleaded  for  a 
young  man  who  had  been  caught  stealing  and  that 
the  magistrate  gave  him  another  chance." 

"  The  young  man  had  an  old  mother  to  sup- 
port and  he  might  never  make  another  mistake. 
Besides,  if  he  had  been  locked  up  it  would  have 
been  the  helpless  mother  who  would  have  suf- 
fered." 

She  had  placed  a  hand  on  his  right  arm  as 
she  catechized  him. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  standing  close  to  him 
and  looking  him  in  the  eyes,  "  that  I  shall  have 


THE   QUARRY  193 

to  be  the  assistant  and  you  the  Samaritan.  I 
shall  care  for  the  ill  and  you  shall  ask  forgiveness 
and  help  for  the  wretched  and  the  sinful." 

He  touched  her  hand  with  his  and  pressed  it 
ever  so  lightly. 

"  We  should  be  going,"  he  suggested.  "  It  is 
very  near  the  noon  hour." 

"  I  am  to  join  father  in  his  office  and  take  him 
home  to  dinner,"  she  said,  as  they  left  the  cottage 
and  the  mill  settlement.  "  Won't  you  come  with 
us?  I  shall  have  father  invite  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  but  it  is  not  possible  to-day,"  he 
replied.  "  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  but  I  have  much 
lost  time  to  make  up  and  I  must  go  into  the  city  on 
business." 

They  had  come  to  a  cross-road. 

"  I  must  go  this  way,"  he  told  her,  pausing. 

She  looked  disappointed. 

His  heart  was  beating  fast  and  he  could  think 
of  nothing  commonplace  enough  to  say.  The  wild 
surge  of  love  that  had  come  to  him  at  the  first 
glimpse  of  her  face  he  experienced  again. 

She  studied  his  face  for  a  moment  and  saw  that 
he  was  inwardly  disturbed.  She  wondered  if  it 
was  a  return  of  his  old  shyness  and  then  thought 


194  THE   QUARRY 

that,  perhaps,  it  was  because  he  did  not  want  to 
leave  her. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said  softly,  extending  her 
little  gloved  hand.  He  touched  her  fingers  lightly 
and  lifted  his  hat. 

"  Good-by,"  he  repeated. 

"  Tuesdays  and  Fridays  are  my  days  in  the 
settlement,"  she  said  over  her  shoulder,  as  she 
started  off. 

He  stood  in  the  road  watching  her  until  she 
disappeared  around  its  first  bend. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ALTHOUGH  Nelson  devoted  every  hour 
of  the  day  for  the  next  succeeding  four 
months  to  perfecting  a  second  invention, 
the  winter  proved  a  period  of  mental  agony  to 
him.  His  second  invention  was  tested  in  due 
time  and  brought  him  an  even  larger  financial 
reward  than  the  first  but,  try  as  he  might,  he 
could  not  throw  from  him  the  great  love  that  ab- 
sorbed his  soul.  His  thoughts  dwelt  upon  Molly 
Bryan  as  he  worked  and  his  nights  were  filled  with 
dreams  of  her. 

At  times  he  was  perilously  near  casting  the 
dice  with  Fate  and  declaring  his  love  for  her  and 
asking  her  to  be  his  wife.  But  when  it  seemed  that 
the  soul  within  him  would  parch  and  perish  if  he 
did  not  take  that  step,  his  brave  nature  asserted 
itself  and  he  passed  through  the  fire  of  affliction 
safely. 

With  a  part  of  the  money  that  began  to  flow  into 


196  THE  QUARRY 

his  possession  from  royalties,  as  his  machines 
were  put  on  the  market,  he  bought  stock  in  the 
mills  where  he  was  employed.  He  was  chosen 
a  director  of  the  company  at  its  January  meeting 
and  Mr.  Bryan  took  him  into  active  cooperation 
in  the  direction  of  the  management  of  the  plant. 

Neither  the  mill  president  nor  his  daughter 
could  understand  Nelson's  avoidance  of  their 
home.  That  Nelson  loved  her  Molly  knew,  with 
all  the  intuition  of  a  sensible  and  sweet  girl. 
That  she  had  given  him  no  reason  to  believe  that 
he  was  otherwise  than  welcome  she  was  equally 
certain. 

It  was  perhaps  the  failure  of  John  Nelson  to 
press  his  suit  that  made  the  first  feeling  of  tender- 
ness and  admiration  she  had  for  him  turn  quickly 
into  genuine  love.  It  is  only  that  which  is  hard 
to  grasp,  that  is  denied  for  a  long  time,  that 
makes  hunger  of  soul  or  body. 

Toward  the  end  of  winter  a  thing  occurred 
that  drove  despair  into  Nelson's  heart  and  made 
him  decide  immediately  as  to  his  future  course. 

Mr.  Bryan  entered  his  office  in  the  mill  and 
handed  him  a  letter  that  had  been  opened.  In  the 
left-hand  corner  of  the  envelope  was  the  seal  of 


THE   QUARRY  197 

the  City  of  New  York  and  the  printed  words: 
"  Department  of  Police,  New  York  City." 

"  You  might  read  this  for  your  own  guidance, 
Nelson,"  said  Mr.  Bryan,  "  and  then  pass  it 
along  to  the  foremen  of  the  various  departments." 

Nelson  drew  forth  the  letter,  a  mimeographed 
sheet,  asking  that  a  lookout  be  kept  for  James 
Montgomery,  escaped  convict  and  murderer,  sen- 
tenced for  life  to  Sing  Sing.  The  man  the  police 
wanted  was  an  expert  machinist,  was  likely  to 
apply  for  work  anywhere  in  the  industrial  sections 
of  the  country,  and  then  followed  a  minute  de- 
scription of  feature  and  build  of  body. 

The  hound  was  still  after  the  quarry. 

"  I'll  look  after  it,  Mr.  Bryan,"  he  managed  to 
say. 

"  What's  the  matter  to-day?  "  asked  the  presi- 
dent. "  You  look  pale  and  worried." 

"  Nothing  —  nothing  serious  at  any  rate,"  re- 
plied Nelson. 

"  You  are  working  too  hard;  better  take  it  easy 
for  awhile,"  advised  Mr.  Bryan.  He  paced  the 
floor  of  his  right-hand  man's  office  for  a  moment, 
stroking  his  gray  mustache. 

"  Look  here,  Nelson,"  he  said,  in  a  kindly  half- 


198  THE   QUARRY 

troubled  tone,  "  something  has  been  worrying  you 
all  winter.  What  is  it?  Tell  it  to  me.  I  am  your 
friend." 

Nelson's  face  was  as  white  as  the  snow  on  the 
ground  outside. 

It  was  not  the  caliber  of  the  man  to  lie.  If  he 
had  tried  to  lie  he  would  have  made  a  bungle  of  it. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  replied. 

"  Is  it  Molly?  "  asked  Mr.  Bryan. 

Nelson  did  not  reply.    He  could  not. 

"  She  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  my  boy," 
said  her  father. 

Nelson  left  his  desk  and  stood  before  Molly 
Bryan's  kindly  father.  A  confession  of  his  love 
for  the  daughter  trembled  on  his  lips.  He  felt 
that  at  any  moment  a  torrent  of  words  would 
pour  forth  from  him  and  lay  bare  the  whole  tragic, 
terrible  story  hidden  in  his  breast.  Under  the 
secret  he  carried,  his  heart  lay  like  a  stone.  He 
would  have  given  his  left  arm  to  have  closed  his 
office  door  and  made  his  confession,  but  he  had 
been  hunted  long  enough  to  feel  the  sense  of 
caution  exert  itself. 

If  he  himself  felt  that  he  should  not  ask  Molly 
Bryan  to  enter  the  cloud  that  encompassed  him 


THE   QUARRY  199 

and  his  future,  surely  her  father  would  not  give 
his  assent.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  a  chance 
that  his  rapidly  accumulating  wealth  would  prove 
the  means  of  some  day  dispelling  that  cloud. 

"  Mr.  Bryan,"  he  said  simply,  "  I  can't  tell  what 
is  my  trouble.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  whatever 
happens  I  came  to  you  as  a  poor  young  man  with- 
out a  blot  on  his  conscience,  without  having  done 
harm  to  any  one,  and  that  I  would  rather  suffer 
alone  than  have  others  suffer  with  me." 

"  I  hate  to  think  of  a  young  man  having  such 
brilliant  prospects  being  a  man  of  sorrow,"  said 
the  mill  president.  "  Your  secret  is  yours  and 
if  it  is  eating  away  your  heart  it  gives  me  pain 
to  think  of  it.  I  will  gladly  share  any  affliction 
put  upon  you  if  it  does  not  dishonor  you  or  your 
friends." 

Mr.  Bryan  returned  to  his  office  and  Nelson 
tore  into  tiny  bits  the  police  circular.  He  would 
have  to  go  away.  There  were  two  reasons.  The 
hound  was  near  the  quarry;  his  plight  was  bring- 
ing sadness  to  the  woman  he  loved.  Not  more 
than  a  score  of  miles  beyond  his  office  window  the 
boundary  lines  of  South  Carolina  tapered  between 
North  Carolina  and  Tennessee,  making  a  moun- 


200  THE   QUARRY 

tainous  corner.  There,  few  of  the  people  could 
read.  The  questions  they  asked  were  about  the 
weather  and  the  scant  crops  of  corn  from  which 
they  illicitly  distilled  enough  whiskey  to  provide 
them  with  money  for  clothes  and  medicine.  Their 
habitat  was  called  the  Dark  Corner. 

He  would  withdraw  into  its  shadows.  Per- 
haps, after  a  few  years,  he  could  come  out  of  the 
wilderness  with  safety  and  find  Molly  Bryan 
waiting  for  him.  It  was  sweet  for  him  to  think 
that  any  one  would  wait  his  coming. 

At  first  the  scheme  seemed  visionary,  but  care- 
ful study  of  it  convinced  him  that  it  was  not  only 
a  plausible  plan  but  the  safest  he  could  devise. 
He  would  buy  a  number  of  acres  and  build  him- 
self a  home  and  a  workshop.  His  determination 
to  devote  all  his  energies  to  invention  for  a  number 
of  years  was  logical  and  would  furnish  the  neces- 
sary explanation. 

That  night  he  told  Lansing  of  his  plan. 

"  I  am  going  to  get  away  from  everywhere 
for  a  year  or  so,"  he  said  to  Lansing,  in  the  latter's 
study.  "  All  my  time  shall  be  devoted  to  ex- 
perimental work.  The  money  from  my  two  in- 
ventions is  constantly  increasing.  I  shall  use  it 


THE   QUARRY  201 

to  build  a  home  and  a  workshop  in  the  moun- 
tains." 

Lansing  was  machinist  and  student  enough  to 
realize  the  demands  insisted  upon  by  creative 
effort,  and  he  gave  his  approval  to  the  plan. 

In  the  spring,  while  the  snow  still  lay  upon  the 
ground  in  shady  places,  Nelson  attacked  the  wil- 
derness with  a  gang  of  workmen.  He  had  bought 
five  hundred  acres  in  the  Dark  Corner.  Here  he 
lived  in  a  shanty  with  his  workers,  as  they  made  a 
clearing  and  he  directed  the  blasting  and  cutting 
of  rock  from  the  unscarred  sides  of  the  mountains 
for  his  foundations. 

When  his  castle  in  the  Dark  Corner  neared 
completion,  he  journeyed  back  to  Greenville, 
arriving  there  in  the  night.  He  timed  himself 
so  that  he  caught  an  express  train  north.  In  a 
distant  city,  the  next  day,  he  wrote  and  enclosed 
with  a  one  dollar  certificate  this  personal,  addressed 
to  the  business  office  of  The  Herald  in  New  York: 

"  Bill  —  Greenville  —  19  —  3  —  Kid." 

The  number  nineteen  meant  the  nineteenth 
letter  of  the  alphabet,  "  S,"  and  the  number  three 
meant  the  third  letter,  "  C." 

Of  all  the  men  in  the  world  there  was  but  one 


202  THE  QUARRY 

that  he  felt  he  could  surely  trust,  one  that  fully 
believed  him,  one  that  would  come  and  help  him, 
and  this  man  with  the  succor  he  called  for  now  was 
a  convict. 

The  numbers  gave  Bill  Hawkins  all  the  direc- 
tions necessary  to  guide  him  to  the  boy  who  had 
brought  something  worth  while  into  his  life,  — 
kindness  and  helpfulness. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

NELSON'S  castle  in  the  Dark  Corner  took 
shape  rapidly.  It  rose  two-and-a-half 
stories  above  a  basement  of  rock.  From 
the  upper  windows  he  was  given  a  clear  view  of 
every  point  of  the  circle  where  sky  and  earth 
met.  The  outside  was  painted  a  neutral  color, 
so  that  only  a  keen  pair  of  eyes  at  a  distance  would 
have  picked  out  the  habitation  amid  the  sur- 
rounding shade  trees. 

The  high  basement  was  planned  for  kitchen, 
servants  and  storage  purposes.  The  first  floor 
was  arranged  for  his  workshop,  the  floor  above  for 
his  living  quarters,  and  the  top  or  half-story  was 
to  remain  closed  against  every  human  hand  save 
that  of  Nelson. 

There  was  gossip  among  the  machinists  and 
laborers  who  uncrated  the  masses  of  steel  and  iron 
that  had  been  hauled  over  the  mountain  roads,  for 
among  the  things  that  were  not  deposited  on  the 
laboratory  floor  were  certain  weights  with  leather 


204  THE  QUARRY 

clasps  about  the  thickness  of  a  man's  ankle.  There 
were  also  iron  bars  and  affairs  of  rope  and  polished 
wood  that  looked  like  the  trapezes  and  gymnastic 
apparatus  used  in  the  circus.  These  things  were 
placed  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the 
attic.  There  was  a  heavy  lock  to  the  door  and 
the  master  of  the  strange  mountain  castle  never 
parted  with  the  key. 

A  small  electric  plant  was  installed  to  provide 
power  for  his  shop  and  lighting. 

Built  against  one  side  of  the  castle  was  a  cement 
garage,  in  which  was  kept  a  motor  of  powerful 
build  and  finest  engines.  It  had  been  constructed 
especially  to  stand  the  strain  of  broken  mountain 
roads  and  carried  a  huge  gasolene  tank  and  a  place 
for  provisions. 

The  garage  could  be  entered  from  the  castle 
by  means  of  a  door  of  masked  design,  which 
showed  neither  casing  nor  knob.  A  hidden  spring 
opened  and  closed  it. 

As  if  seeking  to  get  all  the  sunlight  possible, 
the  house  that  John  Nelson  built  was  of  many 
windows,  and  each  was  in  the  deep  French  style. 
Every  window  was,  in  fact,  a  door.  It  was  a 
house  of  many  exits. 


THE   QUARRY  205 

In  a  separate  clearing,  Nelson  built  a  house  for 
his  servants  and  installed  in  it  a  negro,  his  wife 
and  his  strapping  black  son.  He  gave  this  family 
a  piece  of  land  to  till  and  provided  them  with 
light  and  fuel  and  wages. 

Furniture,  bedding,  equipment  in  abundance 
for  his  workshop  and  stores  were  taken  within 
the  castle  and  the  last  of  the  workmen  de- 
parted. 

Employing  the  mountain  people  as  laborers, 
Nelson  patched  the  roads  until  he  felt  that  he 
could  use  the  full  power  of  his  heavy  motor  in 
traversing  them,  if  it  became  necessary  to  tax  its 
speed.  He  had  promised  Mr.  Bryan  to  remain  in 
an  advisory  capacity  as  the  vice-president  of  his 
mills,  and  to  keep  this  promise  he  stretched  from 
pine  to  pine  a  private  telephone  wire  between  his 
castle  and  the  office  and  home  of  the  mill  presi- 
dent. 

He  started  his  hermit  life  with  two  things  be- 
fore him  besides  his  work  as  a  mechanical  inventor. 
One  was  to  wait  the  coming  of  Bill  Hawkins,  to 
whom  he  would  entrust  the  task  of  seeking  in  the 
underworld  the  murderer  of  the  watchman  of 
the  West  End  bank  in  New  York.  The  other  was 


206  THE   QUARRY 

to  prepare  himself  to  face  the  day,  should  it  ever 
come,  when  a  man  from  Mulberry  Street  would 
confront  him  and  charge  him  with  being  James 
Montgomery. 

Recollections  of  his  five  years  in  Sing  Sing  beset 
him  at  regular  intervals.  A  moment  of  gazing 
from  a  window  at  the  wide  expanse  of  sky  and 
rolling  mountains,  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees,  and  the  bedtime  hour  when  he  found  his 
couch  soft  and  sweet  with  fresh  linen  would  bring 
back  to  him  thoughts  of  the  other  thing  he  had 
passed  through:  the  absence  of  horizon,  the  barred 
door  of  a  cell  at  night,  the  tramping  feet  of  a 
thousand  and  a  half  caged  men,  the  day's  toil  in 
silence,  the  hideous  faces  of  criminals  being 
crowded  into  deeper  degeneracy  by  incarceration, 
and  the  sentence  of  the  court  that  he  should  re- 
main in  such  plight  until  death. 

He  told  himself  that  he  would  never  be  taken 
back  to  it  alive.  His  good,  capable,  well-ordered 
brain  had  mapped  out  a  careful  course.  Should 
the  bloodhounds  of  the  law  come  upon  him  in 
this  place  he  had  built  for  final  refuge,  he  would 
make  his  fight  to  pass  them. 

During  his  visits  to  Greenville  he  cashed  checks 


THE   QUARRY  207 

paid  him  for  royalties  on  his  inventions  until 
he  secured  ten  thousand  dollars  in  certificates  of 
denominations  he  could  use  anywhere. 

If  flight  became  necessary,  he  would  go  through 
the  masked  door  to  his  high-powered  machine. 
Its  great  oil  tank  was  always  filled,  its  tires  ever 
kept  in  the  best  condition,  and  stowed  away  under 
the  seat  were  provisions  and  a  flask  of  water. 
Unless  he  was  shot  down  in  his  tracks  or  surprised 
and  overpowered  suddenly,  he  could  defy  pursuit 
through  the  wild  country  about  him. 

Each  morning  he  passed  through  the  door  to  the 
attic  stairs  and  locked  it  behind  him.  For  an  hour 
he  worked  with  the  weights  and  bars,  changing 
his  measurements  slowly  but  surely.  The  frac- 
tion of  an  inch  in  the  length  of  arm  or  leg  would 
discredit  the  Bertillon  record  made  of  him  and 
filed  in  the  Bureau  of  Identification  at  police 
headquarters  in  New  York.  He  gave  many  an 
hour  of  agony  to  achieve  this  and  his  face  was 
chalky  white  when  he  left  the  attic  and  locked  its 
door  behind  him  each  day. 

With  the  anxiety  and  the  hard  work  in  his 
laboratory,  a  touch  of  gray  came  to  his  hair  and 
beard.  He  looked  a  man  of  forty-five,  save 


208  THE   QUARRY 

when  he  smiled,  but  the  purity  and  goodness  of 
his  nature  shone  forth  in  his  countenance. 

More  money  came  to  him  as  the  foreign  rights 
of  his  inventions  were  disposed  of,  and  he  cast 
about  him  for  an  opportunity  to  put  it  in  use  for 
others.  He  employed  as  many  of  the  sturdy  moun- 
taineers as  he  could  in  road  work,  paying  them 
good  wages.  He  patched  their  cabins,  provided 
medicines  for  their  sick,  and  blankets  and  stout 
clothes  for  the  women  and  children. 

The  scattered  families  of  these  poor  people 
looked  up  to  him  with  mingled  wonder  and  grati- 
tude. When  time  rid  them  of  their  childlike 
timidity,  they  came  to  know  him  and  to  love  him. 

In  cell  and  in  workshop,  on  the  highway  or  in 
farmhouse,  Nelson  exerted  a  silent  power  for 
good  because  of  the  good  that  was  in  him.  To  the 
Dark  Corner  he  came  as  a  veritable  shaft  of  sun- 
light from  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THERE  is  no  statute  of  limitations  for  an 
escaped  convict.  He  is  always  legitimate 
quarry. 

Nearly  ten  years  had  passed  since  James  Mont- 
gomery was  brought  before  the  desk  of  Inspector 
Ranscombe  at  police  headquarters  in  Mulberry 
Street. 

Ten  years !  The  first  decade  of  a  man's  majority, 
the  heart  of  his  life,  the  time  when  character 
shapes,  when  the  soul  is  nascent,  when  the  heart 
swings  into  responsive  beat  to  all  that  is  fine  and 
beautiful  or  to  all  that  is  the  reverse,  and  when 
the  things  of  childhood  disappear  in  a  mist  and  the 
emotions  and  affections  of  manhood  take  their 
place. 

There  had  been  changes  at  headquarters  in 
that  time.  The  administration  of  the  city  was 
in  other  hands.  The  police  department  had  gone 
through  the  throes  of  more  than  one  shake-up 


210  THE   QUARRY 

and  there  had   been   several   police   commission- 
ers. 

Ranscombe  had  been  relieved  of  his  important 
post  as  the  chief  of  the  city's  little  army  of  plain- 
clothes  men,  but  he  had  played  the  game  of  de- 
partment politics  well  and  had  won  his  way  back 
to  the  Central  Office.  The  fight  had  rattled  his 
fast  drying  bones  for  a  short  while,  had  interested 
him  and  in  the  end  had  given  him  fresh  interest  in 
life.  He  went  back  to  his  job  all  the  keener  for 
his  task. 

On  his  return  he  found  Detective  Lieutenant 
Mike  Kearney,  stolid,  emotionless,  waiting  for 
an  assignment  to  a  case,  as  usual.  The  inspector 
knew  his  value  and  had  him  promoted  to  the 
grade  of  captain.  He  assigned  Kearney  to  take 
charge  of  the  homicide  squad. 

With  this  advancement  Kearney  reached  the 
climax  of  his  career.  He  could  go  no  higher. 
Politics  did  not  interest  him.  There  was  nothing 
of  the  diplomat  in  his  make-up.  He  would  have 
made  a  poor  inspector,  for  his  natural  instinct 
of  ferreting  would  have  compelled  him  to  lower 
his  nose  to  the  trail  of  every  criminal  at  large, 
and  he  would  have  become  bewildered  by  the 


THE   QUARRY  211 

maze  of  tracks  and  scents.  He  would  have  tried 
to  do  all  the  work  himself,  leaving  nothing  for  his 
subordinates. 

But  with  only  the  homicide  cases  to  look  after, 
he  was  capable  of  holding  himself  in  leash  to  some 
extent.  He  could  live,  sleep  and  dream  murder. 
The  men  under  him  were  the  pick  of  the  seven 
hundred  and  more  detectives  of  the  department. 
They  work  hardest,  because  in  murder  cases  there 
is  honor  and  glory.  The  more  atrocious  and  puz- 
zling a  murder  mystery,  the  more  fame  in  the 
public  prints  for  the  sleuths  tracking  the  criminal 
and  sending  him  to  the  chair. 

Kearney  started  out  in  his  new  post  with  a 
slate  clean,  save  for  one  inscription  —  the  number 
60,108. 

Those  numerals  were  burned  in  his  brain.  They 
represented  the  only  case  in  his  entire  career 
when  he  had  been  foiled,  when  ingenuity,  luck 
or  whatever  it  was,  had  played  successfully 
against  his  dogged  and  remorseless  method  of  pur- 
suit. He  felt  that  he  was  being  cheated  every  day 
that  the  escaped  convict  enjoyed  life  outside  of 
Sing  Sing's  walls. 

Had  Montgomery  been  a  thief,  a  forger  or  a 


212  THE  QUARRY 

bigamist,  he  could  have  turned  the  matter  over 
to  his  inspector,  as  a  case  still  pending.  But  he 
had  been  convicted  of  murder  and  his  case  properly 
belonged  in  the  Homicide  Bureau. 

Gradually  Kearney  got  the  affairs  of  the  bureau 
working  to  suit  him,  and  he  could  pause  and  give 
some  study  to  the  Montgomery  matter. 

The  annual  summer  crime  wave  had  subsided 
and  with  the  coming  of  cool  weather,  men  ceased 
to  see  red;  instead  of  the  resort  to  knife,  pistol 
or  poison,  enmities  ended  with  a  curse  or  a  sneer. 
The  fever  of  disordered  brains  subsided.  The 
Homicide  Bureau  was  in  for  a  dull  period. 

Captain  Kearney's  mind  turned  from  the  evil 
corners  of  the  metropolis  to  the  walled  city  up 
the  Hudson.  Time  had  changed  the  prison  staffs 
throughout  the  State.  There  was  a  new  super- 
intendent of  prisons  and  a  new  warden  at  Sing 
Sing.  Kearney's  old  enemy,  the  warden  who  had 
frowned  on  his  third  degree  methods  with  Con- 
vict Number  60,110,  had  been  retired  to  private 
life. 

Kearney  called  up  the  new  warden  and  asked 
for  an  appointment  the  next  time  he  came  to  the 
city.  The  warden  was  even  then  about  to  start 


THE   QUARRY  213 

for  town,   and   he   would   drop  in   at   headquar- 
ters. 

Within  two  hours  the  guardian  of  Sing  Sing's 
population  was  seated  beside  Kearney's  desk. 

"  I  gotta  case,"  explained  the  detective,  "  that 
I'm  anxious  to  clean  up.  Ten  years  ago  I  sent 
a  young  feller  named  Montgomery  to  Sing  Sing 
for  murder  in  the  second.  He  was  put  away  for 
life.  Five  years  ago,  before  you  got  on  the  job, 
he  escaped.  A  crook  named  Hawkins,  his  cell- 
mate, helped  him  to  get  out.  The  old  warden 
turned  me  down  hard  when  I  tried  to  put  the 
screws  to  Hawkins.  Now,  I  gotta  scheme."  He 
paused  to  get  the  full  attention  of  the  warden. 

"  As  I  dope  it  out  from  the  records,"  he  went 
on,  "  this  convict  Hawkins  has  served  two-thirds 
of  his  term.  I  want  him  turned  out,  but  I  don't 
want  him  to  know  that  I  had  anything  to  do  with 
it.  I'll  have  a  shadow  put  on  him  the  moment  he 
leaves  prison,  and  if  he  joins  that  young  feller 
he  helped  get  out,  I'm  gonna  get  the  '  lifer  '  and 
put  him  back  where  he  belongs.  D'yuh  get  me?  " 

"  I  gotcha." 

"  You  can  fix  it?  " 

"  Easy." 


214  THE   QUARRY 

"  After  Hawkins  flushes  the  bird  for  us,  and 
we  get  the  real  game,  then  we  can  lay  back  and 
watch  Hawkins.  He'll  go  back  to  his  old  tricks 
and  soon  .we'll  have  him  back  where  he  belongs." 

The  warden  nodded  approval,  a  smile  of  admi- 
ration playing  about  his  lips. 

"  The  Probation  Board  is  now  in  session,"  he 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "  We'll  turn  him  out  as  an 
act  of  mercy  and  in  the  hope  that  he  will  reform 
and  make  a  good  citizen." 

"  I'll  get  a  couple  of  shadows  up  there  in  the 
morning,"  Kearney  told  him.  The  warden  de- 
parted and  Kearney  closed  his  desk  and  started 
for  dinner  in  his  mother's  little  flat  in  Oliver  Street. 

The  more  he  thought  of  the  plan  to  use  Hawkins 
to  unconsciously  betray  his  friend  the  more  he 
liked  it.  He  would  leave  a  lieutenant  in  charge 
of  his  bureau  for  a  few  days  and  take  the  trail 
himself  in  the  hope  that  it  would  lead  speedily 
to  the  game  he  wanted. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  silent  influence  of  five  years  with  a 
man  who  prayed  to  his  God  morning 
and  night  and  kept  a  brave  heart  in  his 
bosom,  although  he  was  suffering  bitter  injustice, 
had  a  lasting  effect  on  Bill  Hawkins. 

The  old  burglar  had  come  to  look  upon  James 
Montgomery  as  if  he  were  his  own  son  grown  to 
manhood,  and  this  affection,  which  had  grown 
within  him  gradually,  drove  bitterness  from  his 
heart.  It  was  as  if  the  tragedy  of  his  own  life 
had  been  veiled  by  a  kindly  hand.  Had  he  been 
as  brave  as  this  lad  he  had  helped  to  reach  freedom, 
had  he  been  blessed  with  such  a  mother  as  Mont- 
gomery had,  and  had  he  been  taught  to  pray  and 
put  his  trust  in  God,  the  tragedy  of  his  son's 
death  and  of  his  wife's  bitter  fate  might  never 
have  come  about. 

As  the  days  passed  in  Sing  Sing  and  the  boy  was 
not  brought  back  to  his  cell,  Bill  found  his  spirits 


216  THE   QUARRY 

gradually  brightening.  He  had  accomplished 
something  in  life,  bound  though  he  was  and  held 
within  walls  of  stone  and  steel. 

He  learned  to  conform  to  the  prison  regulations 
and  his  new  course  of  conduct  was  not  without 
its  good  effect.  His  red  disc  was  gone  forever, 
of  course,  but  he  could  still  win  chevrons  and 
turn  them  into  stars  of  honor  with  each  five  years 
of  exemplary  behavior. 

In  the  cutting  room,  the  "  Butcher  "  still  kept 
a  good  record  and  received  the  benefits  thereof 
in  letters  and  newspapers.  As  they  worked  over 
their  tailoring,  the  two  talked  with  the  deaf  and 
dumb  alphabet  and  Bill  kept  in  daily  touch  with 
the  personal  column  of  the  Herald. 

The  message  finally  came  and  Bill  was  sig- 
nalled by  the  "Butcher"  to  stand  by  to  receive  it. 
He  quickly  comprehended  the  use  of  the  numbers 
and  knew  that  he  would  find  Montgomery  in 
Greenville,  S.  C. 

As  if  Fate  had  determined  to  make  up  for  all 
the  bad  luck  of  the  past  with  one  happy  surprise, 
Bill  was  summoned  before  the  Probation  Board 
that  very  day. 

He  had  four  red  chevrons  on  his  sleeve  and  that 


THE   QUARRY  217 

was    something   worth   while   for   a   one-time   re- 
bellious, third-term  man  to  show. 

Bill  entered  the  trial  room,  walking  as  if  in  a 
dream.  He  knew  of  no  outside  effort  to  gain  his 
release  but  he  knew  also  that  for  four  years  he 
had  walked  as  straight  a  line  as  ever  a  convict 
walked.  He  saw  the  chairman  fingering  some 
papers  at  a  table  about  which  sat  the  other 
members  of  the  Board. 

Bill's  old  thatch  was  now  as  white  as  snow.  Ten 
years  after  the  mid-century  mark  leave  heavy 
traces.  His  eyes  seemed  set  even  deeper  in  his 
head  and  his  high  cheek-bones  seemed  to  jut  out 
further.  But  his  tightly  closed  lips  made  a  firmer 
mark  than  they  had  when  he  started  his  third 
term  for  burglary.  The  expression  of  cunning  and 
craftiness  was  gone  from  his  features.  The  jaw 
was  still  heavy  and  low  set  and  the  brow  sloped, 
but  there  was  the  faint  light  of  regeneration  in 
his  face.  He  was  an  old  man  and  a  somber 
streak  in  life's  harlequinade  but  he  was  no  longer 
crooked  and  ugly.  He  was  a  creature  with  a  soul 
regained. 

"Number  60,110,"  he  heard  the  warden  say, 
"  has  been  a  splendid  prisoner  for  the  last  four 


218  THE  QUARRY 

years.  He  is  getting  old  and  it  looks  as  if  he 
might  straighten  out  if  given  a  chance." 

Bill  did  not  know  the  motive  back  of  this  ut- 
terance of  a  truth  that  was  blessed  to  him.  He 
stood  silent  before  his  judges. 

"  If  you  are  released  on  probation,  will  you 
try  to  be  worthy  of  the  chance  given  you  and  will 
you  report  to  the  Board  once  every  month  by 
letter?  "  the  chairman  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  replied,  his  voice  trembling  as  he 
began  to  realize  that  the  prison  garb  was  about 
to  drop  from  him. 

"  We  have  studied  your  case  and  think  it 
worth  while  to  give  you  a  trial,"  the  chairman  told 
him.  "That  is  all." 

He  was  free!  It  was  hard  for  him  to  understand. 
A  miracle  had  been  wrought,  it  seemed  to  him. 
Kindness,  mercy,  compassion  had  been  offered 
him,  a  thief.  There  must  have  been  truth  in  that 
story  he  heard  told  in  chapel  about  Christ's 
promise  of  heaven  to  the  two  thieves  who  had  been 
crucified  for  their  crimes. 

Dazed  and  spiritually  troubled,  the  old  man 
walked  to  his  cell.  He  heard  the  whistle  blow  for 
work  to  cease  in  the  shops.  He  heard  it,  but  he 


THE   QUARRY  219 

did  not  move  to  the  barred  door  of  his  cell.  It 
was  time  to  wash  up  for  dinner,  but  the  thought 
of  food  brought  revulsion.  He  wanted  the  feel  of 
the  outside  air.  He  would  stand  in  the  road  and 
throw  back  his  head  and  drink  in  the  breath  of 
free  and  living  things.  He  did  not  answer  at 
the  mess  formation  and  a  guard  came  to  his  cell. 

Bill  explained  that  he  had  been  granted  proba- 
tion and  that  he  was  a  free  man.  He  could  not 
eat;  he  was  not  well. 

The  mess  line  marched  off  without  him,  the 
dead-sounding  tread  of  the  prisoners'  feet  echoing 
through  the  tiers.  Bill  stood  in  his  cell,  his  arms 
folded  and  his  chin  on  his  breast. 

He  had  not  asked  for  mercy  and  yet  it  was  given 
him!  What  would  he  find  outside?  No  one  was 
interested  in  him.  Yes,  the  boy,  Jim,  was. 

Did  the  boy  bring  about  his  deliverance? 
Surely,  with  a  life  term  hanging  over  his  head,  he 
could  not  have  reached  out  from  his  hiding  place 
and  opened  the  gates  of  Sing  Sing. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  God  the  boy  used  to  pray  to 
morning  and  night.  Perhaps  Jim  had  been  praying 
for  him  and  He  had  heard  his  prayers. 

The  awakening  soul  of  Bill  Hawkins  leaped  to 


220  THE   QUARRY 

the  beautiful  thought.  His  knees  trembled  and 
he  sank  upon  them  beside  his  iron  cot.  His  head 
fell  in  his  hands,  and  he  prayed.  Indeed  he  prayed, 
for  his  eyes  were  wet  with  the  tears  of  gratitude. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HAWKINS  had  come  to  Sing  Sing  with  noth- 
ing but  his  sins  and  his  sentence  of  fifteen 
years.    He  carried  away  with  him  a  sense 
of  thankfulness,  a  thing  he  had  never  experienced 
before. 

The  cynicism  of  the  case-hardened  criminal 
dropped  from  him  as  the  baggy  gray  suit  dropped 
from  him.  The  tears  that  had  come  to  his  eyes 
during  that  last  hour  in  his  cell  had  washed  them 
clear  of  the  old  baleful  glitter  of  protest  and  re- 
sentment. 

Let  the  soul  shine  from  the  windows  of  a  man 
with  a  prognathous  jaw,  a  sloping  brow  and  long 
arms  and  he  will  confound  the  theories  of  a 
Lombroso.  Let  patience  and  dignity  and  suffer- 
ing show  in  a  face  however  ugly  and  the  mere  con- 
tour means  nothing.  Patriots,  priests,  saints 
have  been  as  ugly  and,  at  the  same  time,  as  beau- 
tiful as  this  old  burglar  who  left  the  office  of  the 
warden  of  Sing  Sing,  saying  to  his  deliverer: 


222  THE   QUARRY 

"  As  God  is  my  judge  and  helper,  I'll  live  the  life 
of  a  decent  man." 

The  warden  shook  his  hand  and  made  a  pretence 
of  beaming  upon  him.  He  little  knew  what  good 
had  come  from  his  base  share  in  the  plan  of  De- 
tective Michael  Kearney  to  use  one  friend  to  betray 
another. 

The  probationer's  gray  suit  was  changed  for  a 
new  black  one  and  a  felt  hat  was  pulled  over  his 
forehead,  hiding  the  defective  formation.  In  his 
pocket  was  enough  money  to  take  him  whence  he 
came  —  the  morass  of  humanity,  the  underworld 
of  New  York.  He  would  return  there  because  no 
other  world  would  have  him,  but  he  would  return 
a  different  man. 

He  was  not  going  forth  to  evangelize.  He  was 
going  to  seek  the  woman  who  had  been  a  pretty 
girl  once,  the  woman  who  had  suffered  ten  thou- 
sand times  what  he  had  suffered,  the  creature  upon 
whom  had  fallen  all  the  bitter  misery  that  could 
be  heaped  upon  wife  and  mother,  not  because 
she  had  been  a  thief  but  because  her  man  had 
stolen. 

Never  mind  what  had  happened  to  her,  she  was 
his  wife.  He  was  no  member  of  polite  society 


THE   QUARRY  223 

and  polite  society's  hollow  code  was  unknown  to 
him,  a  publican  and  sinner.  She  was  the  woman 
who  had  taken  him  when  other  women  had 
turned  from  him  with  fear  and  revulsion.  She  was 
the  woman  who  had  been  patient  and  kind  to 
him  through  poverty  and  through  poverty's  ulti- 
mate condition,  drunkenness  and  despair. 

If  what  Kearney  had  told  him  so  brutally, 
when  he  had  tried  to  bribe  him,  was  true,  it 
made  no  difference.  The  boy  in  his  cell  had  ut- 
tered a  solemn  truth  to  which  humanity  stops  its 
ears  —  it  wasn't  her  fault. 

The  once  broad  and  massive  shoulders  of 
Hawkins  were  bent.  He  walked  as  if  carrying  a 
burden  from  the  prison  gates.  Even  the  glory 
of  the  soft  autumn  morning  could  not  bring  spring- 
iness to  his  limbs.  But  as  he  trudged  up  the  road 
toward  Ossining  station,  he  removed  his  felt  hat 
to  feel  the  kiss  of  the  clean  air.  The  sun  struck 
his  silvery  hair,  making  it  shine  and  seem  as  a 
halo. 

He  had  elected  to  remain  in  the  prison  the 
night  before  so  that  he  could  begin  his  new  life 
with  the  freshness  of  the  morning.  He  walked 
slowly  away  from  the  tomb  to  the  land  of  the 


224  THE   QUARRY 

living.  His  eyes  were  strained  by  the  width  of 
the  new  vision  of  broad  river  and  horizon  be- 
yond. But  he  regained  his  sense  of  perspective 
quickly,  for  he  had  been  thrice  caged  and  thrice 
thrown  out  into  the  world. 

After  ten  years  of  the  miasma  of  sixteen  hundred 
cooped-up  humans,  the  fragrance  of  the  breezes 
that  swept  across  river  and  field  made  his  nostrils 
distend  and  tremble. 

As  he  made  his  way  through  the  Cabbage  Patch 
section  of  the  prison  town,  he  would  occasionally 
pause  to  watch  the  children  playing  in  the  road 
and  their  mothers  pottering  about  little  front 
yards,  caring  for  tiny  and  dusty  beds  of  fall  flowers. 

Finally  he  came  to  the  steep  road  leading  to 
the  station  and  made  his  way  down  the  hill. 
The  rush  of  commuters,  city-bound,  was  already 
under  way.  The  rich  traveled  in  automobiles 
and  carriages  with  fine,  well-fed  horses.  The 
little  multitude  of  clerks  and  strugglers  after 
the  belly-need  trooped  by  him  in  fast  strides, 
every  minute  of  their  time  being  measured  off 
for  each  performance  of  the  day. 

The  old  burglar  felt  the  thrill  of  their  endeavor. 
However  little  they  might  win  with  their  aims, 


THE   QUARRY  225 

their  efforts  and  their  ambitions,  that  little  was 
surely  sweet  if  fairly  won.  They  shouted  morn- 
ing greetings  to  each  other.  The  women  laughed 
and  chatted  together  as  they  sailed  along  in 
little  clumps  of  femininity. 

Styles  had  changed  mightily  since  last  his 
eyes  rested  upon  the  form  of  a  woman.  He  found 
himself  wondering  at  their  manner  of  garb.  They 
were  all  dressed  as  little  girls,  it  seemed  to  him. 
Their  short  and  tight  skirts,  their  wide  flower-and- 
feather-trimmed  hats,  their  stout  shoes,  the  tops 
showing,  and  their  quick,  spruce  steps  created  in 
him  a  mild  amusement. 

At  the  station  he  bought  a  ticket  to  New  York 
and  boarded  the  first  train.  Two  men  of  all  the 
crowd  seemed  to  notice  him.  One  of  these  got 
aboard  the  train  directly  behind  him  while  the 
other  entered  the  coach  he  had  chosen  by  the 
opposite  door. 

The  train  was  an  express  and  they  were  soon 
at  Forty-second  Street,  where,  in  the  swarm  of 
thousands  of  men  and  women,  many  coaches 
were  unloading  to  the  station  platforms. 

Shorter  of  stature  than  the  average  in  the  teem- 
ing crowd,  the  head  of  Hawkins  disappeared  in 


226  THE   QUARRY 

a  sea  of  hats  and  bonnets,  but  the  two  men  who 
had  come  with  him  from  Ossining  were  never  more 
than  ten  feet  away  from  him. 

Leaving  the  Grand  Central  Station,  Hawkins 
struck  to  the  east  and  boarded  a  downtown  Third 
Avenue  Elevated  train.  He  went  all  the  way  to 
Park  Row. 

In  one  of  the  more  widely  read  of  the  penny 
newspapers  he  sought  a  means  of  finding  the 
woman  he  wanted.  He  entered  the  Park  Row 
newspaper  office  and,  counting  his  cash,  found 
that  he  had  two  dollars  and  some  odd  change. 
He  inquired  of  a  clerk  and  found  that  a  "  personal  " 
would  cost  him  one  dollar.  He  was  given  a  pencil 
and  an  advertisement  blank. 

His  heart  was  crying  out  for  the  woman  who 
was  lost  in  this  teeming  city  of  five  millions. 
Could  he  utter  his  cry  in  ten  words?  Could  ten 
words  tell  her  the  change  that  had  come  to  him, 
inform  her  that  he  had  left  the  old  life  forever, 
that  he  had  come  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and 
comfort  her  and  shelter  her  from  further  hurt  and 
harm? 

For  nearly  an  hour  he  labored  over  the  task  and 
finally  was  compelled  to  ask  the  help  of  the  clerk. 


THE   QUARRY  227 

He  told  the  young  man  that  he  wanted  to  find 
his  wife.  The  personal  was  written  and  paid  for, 
and  Bill  departed. 

As  the  probationer  reached  the  sidewalk,  the 
two  men  who  had  followed  him  separated.  One 
kept  on  his  heels  and  the  other,  with  a  look  of 
triumph  in  his  eyes,  hurried  inside  and  to  the  ad- 
vertising clerk.  He  showed  a  police  badge. 

"  I'm  Captain  Kearney  of  Central  Office,"  he 
said  briskly,  "  and  I  want  to  glimpse  the  personal 
the  old  man  just  left  with  you." 

The  clerk  produced  it. 

Kearney  read  it  slowly:  "Jennie  Hawkins. — 
Send  address  this  office.  Want  you,  my  wife." 

The  detective  uttered  a  growl  of  disappoint- 
ment as  he  handed  back  the  slip  of  paper. 

"  Hell,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  thought  he  was 
tipping  Montgomery  that  he  was  out  and  that 
the  trail  would  be  a  short  one." 

He  turned  to  the  clerk  again. 

"  Soon  as  you  get  an  answer  to  that  personal," 
he  instructed  the  young  man,  "  telephone  head- 
quarters and  ask  for  Captain  Kearney.  If  I 
ain't  there  the  message  will  be  delivered  me. 
See?" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IT  is  one  of  the  palpable  and  grotesque  facts 
in  the  game  of  hide  and  seek  between  the 
denizens  of  the  underworld  of  New  York  and 
the  men  of  Central  Office  that  the  plain-clothes 
man  is  as  surely  marked  with  his  profession  of 
ferret  as  the  traffic  squad  man  is  made  evident 
by  his  uniform  and  puttees. 

The  New  York  detective  is  conspicuous  by  his 
commonplace  garments,  his  derby  or  short- 
brimmed  felt  hat,  his  forced  nonchalance,  his 
hands,  which  seem  always  to  get  in  his  way  and 
to  bother  him,  and  his  feet,  which  are  generally 
conspicuous  to  a  painful  degree. 

If  he  is  shadowing  a  man,  he  tries  to  affect  the 
air  of  a  stranger,  looking  curiously  about  when 
his  quarry  pauses  or  turns  to  spot  him.  If  he  is 
engaged  in  pumping  a  crook  over  their  whiskey 
and  water  he  indulges  too  greatly  in  the  thieves' 
slang  and  displays  a  cunning  that  is  unwonted 
among  thieves.  He  does  not  possess  and  cannot 


THE   QUARRY  229 

possess,  because  of  his  inexperience,  that  thing 
which  the  old  criminal  has  —  the  "  Know." 
There  is  no  other  name  for  this  psychic  possession 
of  the  criminal,  and  criminological  psychologists 
have  not  gone  so  far  in  their  studies  and  experi- 
ments as  to  even  realize  its  existence. 

The  "  Know  "  in  the  hunted  man  is  the  same 
instinct  which  all  animals  that  have  become  ob- 
jects of  prey  have  developed.  A  lamb  might  be 
devoured  by  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  but  not  a 
fox.  The  criminal  senses  his  enemy.  Although  he 
may  look  the  stolid  brute,  he  is,  in  reality,  a 
creature  of  highly  nervous  organization.  He  is 
ever  on  the  alert,  sleeps  lightly,  treads  softly  and 
swiftly,  and  is  argus-eyed.  His  ears  are  cocked 
for  the  faintest  sounds  and  his  mind  wide  open  for 
the  faintest  hint  of  danger.  It  is  only  when  he 
becomes  sodden  with  drink  that  he  loses  these 
naturally  developed  gifts  of  the  hunted. 

Hawkins  moved  from  the  respectable,  news- 
paper end  of  Park  Row  to  that  section  of  the  same 
iron-pillared  and  track-covered  highway  which 
melts  into  the  Bowery.  He  had  but  little  money 
and  he  was  hungry. 

For  five  cents  he  could  have  entered  one  of  a 


230  THE   QUARRY 

hundred  and  more  saloons,  had  a  glass  of  beer 
and  his  fill  of  beans,  bread  and  corned  beef.  But 
he  had  learned  his  lesson  from  drink  and  he  passed 
these  places,  choosing  a  cheap  restaurant,  after 
carefully  studying  the  prices  of  its  various  dishes 
displayed  on  a  frame  of  dirty  white  oil-cloth  in 
black  letters. 

He  found  a  seat  in  the  rear  of  the  place  facing 
the  door. 

Kearney's  man  had  entered  behind  him  and  was 
seated  with  his  back  to  him.  But  he  faced  a  mirror, 
and  he  could  see  every  move  of  the  old  probationer 
he  was  shadowing. 

The  eyes  of  Hawkins  shifted  about  the  restau- 
rant, taking  in  the  dirty  walls,  tawdry  pictures, 
faded  artificial  flowers  and  the  little  signs  pro- 
claiming special  dishes  and  their  prices.  For  only 
a  second  his  eyes  rested  on  the  mirror,  but  it  was 
long  enough. 

Of  the  people  crowded  in  the  little  place  all  save 
one  were  busy  reading  the  first  editions  of  the 
afternoon  papers,  eating  or  talking  with  one 
another.  The  one  exception  was  looking  up- 
ward into  the  mirror  and  Hawkins  knew  why,  in- 
stinctively. 


THE   QUARRY  231 

"  A  bull,"  he  said  to  himself. 

The  glance  at  the  mirrored  face  was  enough 
to  impress  it  on  his  mind.  If  this  detective  was 
shadowing  him  and  not  some  other  man,  Hawkins 
would  know  it  in  just  a  little  while. 

He  ordered  a  plate  of  ham  and  beans  and  a  cup 
of  coffee.  Bread  was  served  with  it  —  three  thin 
slices.  He  ate  with  a  good  appetite  and  paid  the 
waiter  fifteen  cents  from  his  little  store  of  money. 

It  had  been  his  intention  to  go  to  the  Herald 
office  and  insert  a  reply  to  the  personal  from  Mont- 
gomery. He  left  the  restaurant  and  continued  his 
way  north  on  the  Bowery  to  Third  Avenue.  He 
went  as  far  as  Twenty-third  Street  and  turned  west. 

At  Fourth  Avenue  he  entered  the  Metropolitan 
building  arcade,  which  runs  through  to  Madison 
Avenue  and  Madison  Square.  He  had  not  as  yet 
turned  about  to  make  an  attempt  to  find  the 
shadow  and  Kearney's  man  was  congratulating 
himself  on  having  struck  an  easy  job. 

Once  in  the  arcade  of  the  building,  Hawkins  in- 
creased his  gait  until  he  came  to  the  wide  Madison 
Avenue  entrance.  Here  the  storm  doors  had  been 
put  up  in  readiness  for  coming  winter  and  the 
heavy  weather  of  the  late  fall.  He  pushed  through 


232  THE   QUARRY 

the  door  but  instead  of  continuing  into  the  Avenue 
he  completed  the  circle  and  was  back  in  the  arcade. 
He  retraced  his  steps,  passing  and  recognizing 
the  shadow,  went  to  a  boot-black  stand  and  calmly 
took  a  chair. 

The  shadow,  surprised,  at  first  thought  that 
this  was  a  ruse  of  the  man  he  was  stalking  to  avoid 
him,  but  when  he  saw  Hawkins  take  the  chair  he 
stood  off  and,  under  cover,  told  himself  that  his 
task  was  still  a  simple  one. 

As  a  Greek  boy  rubbed  and  polished  his  shoes 
Hawkins  pondered  how  best  to  proceed  next. 
Had  Kearney  not  uncovered  his  hand  in  the  at- 
tempt to  bribe  him  to  betray  his  friend,  he  would 
have  been  puzzled  to  fathom  the  meaning  of 
this  shadowing.  Now,  he  understood  why  he 
had  been  released  from  prison  and  why  his  steps 
were  being  dogged.  It  was  not  mercy  and  kindness 
that  had  been  the  motive  of  his  deliverance.  It 
was  police  craft.  Nevertheless,  the  old  man  lost 
none  of  his  sense  of  gratitude  for  having  been 
made  free  again.  However  sinister  the  purpose  of 
those  who  had  brought  about  his  liberation,  he 
was  out  on  probation  and  to  stay  out  as  long  as 
he  violated  no  law. 


THE   QUARRY  233 

The  problem  before  him  was  to  gain  that  pro- 
bation by  his  own  honest  effort  and  not  by  being 
made  a  Judas.  His  knowledge  of  detective  meth- 
ods, gained  in  evil  days,  now  stood  him  in  good 
stead  for  a  good  cause.  He  knew  that  some  time 
during  the  late  afternoon  or  night  his  shadow  would 
be  relieved  by  another.  If  necessary,  the  man 
following  him  would  arrest  him  as  a  suspicious 
character,  take  him  to  a  station  and  hold  him 
just  long  enough  to  have  his  relief  look  him  over 
from  under  cover  and  then  follow  him.  That  he 
would  not  be  held  for  long,  he  knew  very  well. 
The  police  wanted  him  free  so  that  he  could  make 
his  way  to  his  friend  and  guide  them  to  their 
quarry. 

He  was  concerned  chiefly  in  getting  in  print  the 
reply  to  Montgomery's  personal.  To  manage 
this  best  he  would  return  to  his  old  associates  of  the 
underworld.  Unwritten,  the  words  of  the  brief 
message  would  be  passed  along  until  they  reached 
the  Herald  office  and  found  their  way  to  type  and 
eventually  to  the  man  they  were  intended  for. 

His  shoes  were  polished.  He  paid  the  Greek 
boy  and  returned  to  the  Bowery  with  his  shadow. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HAWKINS  entered  the  "  reading  room  " 
of  a  lodging-house  just  north  of  Chatham 
Square.  One  table,  littered  with  cast- 
off  newspapers  and  three  or  four  old  and  well- 
thumbed  magazines,  was  in  the  center  of  the 
room.  Around  the  walls  were  ranged  chairs  placed 
as  closely  together  as  the  seats  on  the  average 
New  York  park  bench. 

As  he  fumbled  among  the  papers,  his  keen  eyes 
swept  the  faces  of  the  down-and-outs  who  had  been 
able  to  pay  for  the  shelter  they  would  have  during 
the  coming  night. 

Kearney's  man  followed  him  into  the  room 
after  a  minute,  pulled  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket 
and  found  a  seat  near  a  window. 

The  probationer  expected  some  one,  but  he 
was  not  among  the  men  gathered  here.  He  took 
a  paper  and  found  a  seat  in  the  same  row  with 
the  detective. 


THE   QUARRY  235 

Without  craning  his  neck  and  leaning  forward 
the  detective  could  not  watch  Bill's  movements. 
Still,  there  was  no  way  for  Bill  to  leave  the  room 
without  being  seen  by  him,  and  the  detective 
was  satisfied  with  their  relative  positions. 

The  "  Butcher,"  beside  whom  the  probationer 
had  worked  in  the  cutting  room,  had  told  him  to 
seek  this  spot  if  he  needed  any  help.  Generally 
about  noon  the  "  Butcher's  "  friend  "  Boston  Ed  " 
Fallon  came  there  to  get  his  mail  and  read  the 
papers  after  breakfast.  A  part  of  Ed's  duties  in 
life  was  to  keep  up  the  underground  communica- 
tion between  the  outside  world  and  the  convicts 
in  Sing  Sing.  It  was  he  who  had  sent  in  the  cash 
with  which  Montgomery  was  staked  when  he 
made  his  getaway.  Bill  would  know  him  by  a 
birthmark  under  his  drooping  left  eye. 

The  noon  hour  passed  tediously  for  Kearney's 
man,  but  comfortably  for  Bill.  He  read  paper 
after  paper,  enjoying  every  line  of  the  news  of 
the  world  from  which  he  had  been  shut  off  so  long. 
All  the  while,  his  keen  ears  and  his  quick  eyes  were 
ready  in  case  the  "  Butcher's "  friend  entered 
the  room.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  eat  again.  One 
meal  a  day  would  be  enough  until  he  found  work. 


236  THE   QUARRY 

With  plenty  of  water,  which  would  cost  him  noth- 
ing, he  could  go  on  half  a  meal  a  day. 

Toward  one  o'clock  "  Boston  Ed,"  a  middle- 
aged  man,  dressed  as  a  laborer,  entered  the  room 
and  went  to  the  table,  where  he  fumbled  among 
the  papers  and  sized  up  the  other  guests  and 
"  sponges  "  of  the  Chatham  Square  lodging  house. 
He  uncovered  the  headquarters  man  in  a  glance 
from  under  his  heavily-lidded  eyes  and  flashed 
a  signal  with  a  look  to  Bill,  whose  eyes  he  saw 
peering  knowingly  at  him  from  over  his  paper. 

Bill's  ringers  began  to  move  and,  without  ap- 
pearing to  look  his  way,  the  "  Butcher  's  "  birth- 
marked  friend  read  a  message  in  the  deaf  and 
dumb  language,  telling  him  to  stand  by  for  a 
talk. 

He  chose  a  paper  and  a  seat,  placing  the  table 
between  him  and  Kearney's  man.  With  his 
hands  in  his  lap,  "  Boston  Ed  "  could  work  his 
fingers  without  the  detective  reading  his  messages, 
should  he,  by  chance,  know  the  sign  code. 

Had  the  man-hunter  the  skill,  intelligence  and 
experience  of  the  hunted,  he  would  not  have  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  made  a  point  in  a  triangle 
so  skilfully  drawn  to  his  disadvantage. 


THE   QUARRY  237 

"  The  '  Butch  '  sent  me,"  signalled  Bill.     "  I'm 
just  out." 

"  Is  the  bull  shadowing  you  ? "  asked  Ed's 
fingers. 

"  Yes." 

"  What's  doing?  " 

"  He's  following  me  to  find  an  escape." 

"  What  you  want?  " 

"  Get  a  personal  in  the  Herald  for  me." 

"  Shoot  it." 

"Here  it  is:  '  Kid.  —  O.  K.  December.— 
Bill.'  " 

"  I  got  you." 

"  Repeat  it." 

"  '  Kid.  —  O.  K.  December.  —  Bill.'  " 

"  I'm  broke." 

"  I'll  pay." 

"  Thanks." 

"  What  you  doing  next?  " 

"  Try  to  shake  the  shadow." 

"Then  what?" 

"  Hunt  for  my  wife,  Jennie  Hawkins.  Adver- 
tised for  her  but  the  bulls  will  watch  the  news- 
paper offices." 

"  Jennie  Hawkins?  " 


238  THE   QUARRY 

"  Yes." 

"Are  you  Bill  Hawkins ?" 

"  Yes." 

The  man  with  the  birthmark  smiled  and  pre- 
tended to  read  his  paper  for  a  moment. 

"  Bill,"  he  resumed. 

"Yes?" 

"  Shake  the  'bull  and  meet  me  in  Corlear's 
Hook  Park.  I'll  take  you  to  her." 

Bill's  hands  dropped  in  his  lap.  He  paled  and 
then  flushed. 

Was  he  to  find  Jennie  so  easily  ?  He  could  hardly 
believe  it.  And  how  would  he  find  her?  Had  she 
another  man?  Was  she  true  to  him?  But  there 
was  a  pleasant  smile  playing  about  the  lips  of  the 
birthmarked  man  that  hinted  of  good  news. 

"  How  is  she?  "  he  asked. 

"  Fine  and  a  good  woman." 

"  Thank  God,"  said  Bill  to  himself  and  then, 
with  his  fingers:  "  I'll  meet  you  in  Deefy's  saloon. 
When?" 

"  Any  night  between  ten  and  twelve." 

Bill  rose  from  his  seat  and  left  the  room,  his 
shadow  at  his  heels. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

HAWKINS  had  the  entire  afternoon  in 
which  to  wear  out  the  patience  of  his 
shadow. 

He  walked  south  on  the  Bowery  to  Park  Row 
once  more  and  stood  leaning  on  a  railing  at  the 
brink  of  the  excavations  for  the  new  Municipal 
Building  near  the  old  Brooklyn  bridge.  He 
watched  the  antlike  droves  of  men  digging  in  the 
great  hole  for  an  hour. 

The  shadow  was  hungry  by  that  time  and  his 
heels  were  feeling  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  trail, 
but  Bill's  only  pause  for  refreshment  was  made 
under  the  bridge,  where  he  gulped  a  three-cent 
glass  of  milk. 

The  doors  of  Father  Evers'  little  red  church 
in  Duane  Street  were  open  and  the  old  probationer 
entered  and  found  quiet  and  peace  for  an  hour, 
as  he  half  knelt  in  a  pew.  He  felt  as  if  he  wanted 
to  pray  and  the  desire  itself  was  a  prayer  of  pro- 
found sincerity  and  beauty. 


240  THE  QUARRY 

He  had  nothing  to  ask  of  his  Master  save  His 
continued  mercy.  He  had  much  to  be  grateful 
for;  his  deliverance  from  prison  and  the  joyful 
news  that  his  wife  was  a  good  woman  and  not 
the  fallen  creature  Kearney  had  said  she  was. 

The  hour  of  solemn  thought  in  this  little  temple 
in  the  heart  of  busy,  downtown  New  York  re- 
freshed him  mightily  and  when  he  left  the  little 
red  church  it  was  with  a  lighter  heart  and  a  lighter 
step. 

Hawkins  made  his  way  to  West  Street  and  the 
North  River  wharves.  Although  he  was  old  and 
bent,  he  still  had  abundant  strength  in  his  long 
arms  and  in  his  massive  shoulders.  He  went 
from  pier  to  pier  looking  for  a  chance  to  put  in  a 
couple  of  hours  at  work.  He  found  the  chance  at 
the  foot  of  Warren  Street,  where  he  was  given 
three  hours'  work  unloading  trucks. 

The  old  probationer  pulled  off  his  coat  and 
folded  it  carefully.  He  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and 
went  at  the  task  before  him.  The  shadow  stood 
off  in  the  distance,  wearing  out  his  heels  and  his 
patience  and  counting  the  minutes  to  the  time 
when  he  might  conscientiously  devise  a  means 
of  getting  relief. 


THE   QUARRY  241 

At  half-past  five  o'clock  Hawkins  was  paid  one 
dollar  by  his  foreman.  He  slipped  into  his  coat 
and  started  away  to  give  the  hound  behind  him  a 
chance  to  show  his  ability  in  shadowing. 

The  rush  hour  was  on  and  Manhattan's  millions 
were  packing  subways,  elevated  and  surface  cars, 
and  crowding  the  bridges.  The  skyscrapers 
gushed  forth  seemingly  endless  streams  of  hu- 
manity. The  sidewalks  overflowed  and  the  streets 
were  filled  from  curb  to  curb.  Below  ground,  the 
subway  platforms  were  crowded,  until  those  on 
the  edges  were  in  constant  peril. 

Broadway,  Nassau,  William,  Spruce,  Fulton 
and  Broad,  Exchange  Place,  Wall  and  the  other 
narrow  highways  in  the  financial  district  all 
contributed  to  the  jam  that  found  an  outlet 
in  the  space  in  front  of  the  World  and  Tribune 
buildings. 

Into  this  space,  filled  with  flocking  men  and 
women,  Hawkins  made  his  way,  dodging  to  right 
and  left  as  he  traveled  across  the  northward  cur- 
rent. His  shadow  had  to  close  in  on  him  to  keep 
him  in  sight.  They  were  not  more  than  three  feet 
apart  when  Hawkins  entered  the  World  building. 

The  fox  passed  through  the  building  to  North 


242  THE   QUARRY 

William  Street  and  disappeared  in  the  gloom  of  the 
third  riverward  arch  of  the  old  bridge.  The  hound 
plunged  after  him.  They  emerged  from  under  the 
bridge  at  Rose  Street  and  the  fox  turned  south 
to  Frankfort  Street.  Turning  to  the  east,  he 
started  as  if  for  the  river,  hanging  close  to  the 
bridge  arches.  Suddenly  the  fox  disappeared! 

The  hound  had  just  left  Rose  Street  and  had 
turned  east  also.  Not  seeing  his  quarry,  he 
hurried  his  steps,  keeping  his  eyes  shifting  from 
one  side  of  Frankfort  Street  to  the  other. 

Two  of  the  great  arches  of  masonry  were 
bricked  in  for  storage  purposes.  The  third  was 
open. 

The  hound  peered  into  the  fast-gathering  shad- 
ows and  at  the  other  end  of  the  arch  noticed  a 
building.  It  looked  like  a  blind  alley  but  it  was 
not.  He  was  peering  into  a  veritable  appendix 
of  the  city's  system  of  highways.  It  was  Hague 
Street,  a  short,  twisted  path  about  which  property 
had  been  laid  out  when  New  York  was  New 
Amsterdam.  It  ran  like  the  letter  "  S  "  from  the 
bridge  arch  to  Pearl  Street,  which  is  as  crooked 
as  the  crookedest  Tammany  politician. 

The  fox  knew  the  ground,  the  old  "  Swamp  " 


THE   QUARRY  243 

section,  where  are  the  places  of  business  for  the 
hide  and  leather  merchants,  where  there  is  always 
the  disagreeable  smell  of  wet  hides  and  rotting 
hairs  and  where  the  buildings  are  old-fashioned. 

The  hound  gave  a  last  glance  up  and  down 
Frankfort  Street  and  then  plunged  into  Hague. 
He  ran  to  the  end  of  the  arch  and  saw  a  short  and 
,  sharp  curve.  He  ran  to  the  bend  of  this  and  saw 
the  second  curve.  He  ran  to  the  bend  of  the 
second  curve  and  saw  Pearl  Street,  twisting  like 
a  python,  crowded  with  homeward-hurrying  thou- 
sands and  made  darker  in  the  dusk  of  falling  eve- 
ning because  of  the  shadows  of  the  elevated  struc- 
ture and  the  great  bridge  overhead. 

The  fox  was  gone! 

The  hound  was  in  the  tangle  of  New  Chambers, 
Cherry,  Oak,  Madison,  Pearl,  Rose  and  Vande- 
water  Streets.  He  ran  to  right  and  left,  peering 
into  doorways,  darting  into  saloons  and  out  again, 
hoping  against  hope  that  the  lost  trail  might  be 
picked  up  again. 

The  fox  was  safe  on  his  way.  He  had  doubled 
on  his  tracks  and  was  back  in  North  William 
Street,  only  a  few  hundred  feet  from  his  pursuer 
but  hopelessly  lost  to  him. 


244  THE   QUARRY 

In  the  William  Street  arch  of  the  bridge  is  set 
an  open  stair  leading  to  the  tracks  above.  It  is 
no  wider  than  the  door  of  an  ordinary  room.  The 
fox  entered  and  ascended  the  stone  steps.  He  was 
back  in  the  swarming,  righting  multitude  of  people, 
swallowed  up  by  it.  He  let  the  rush  carry  him 
and  he  was  swept  aboard  a  car  bound  for  Brook- 
lyn. 

As  the  car  passed  the  last  arch  and  struck  the 
span  high  above  the  river  and  the  pier  tops,  the 
hound  below  was  running  about,  whimpering 
with  distress  and  wondering  what  Captain  Kearney 
would  say  to  him  when  he  reported. 

The  fox  left  the  car  in  Brooklyn  and  walked  to 
the  Catherine  Street  ferry,  turning  in  his  tracks 
occasionally  to  assure  himself  that  his  pursuer  had 
been  really  outwitted.  He  recrossed  the  East 
River  by  way  of  the  ferry  and  then  struck  through 
the  familiar  lower  East  Side  of  Manhattan  until 
he  reached  Corlear's  Hook  Park.  Here  he  found 
"  Deefy's  "  saloon,  so  called  because  the  owner 
was  deaf  and  dumb  and  his  patronage  was  from 
those  similarly  afflicted.  It  was  a  place  of  silent 
refreshment. 

"  Deefy's "    stands    there    to-day,    one   of   the 


THE   QUARRY  245 

quaintest  places  in  one  of  the  quaintest  corners 
of  a  city,  as  interesting  to  even  the  casual  ob- 
server as  London  was  to  the  great  novelist  who 
wrote  of  London's  streets  and  London's  poor. 

The  probationer  entered  the  saloon  by  the 
"  Family  "  entrance  and  took  his  seat  at  a  table 
in  a  tiny  room  back  of  the  bar.  In  the  sign  lan- 
guage he  ordered,  from  a  deaf  and  dumb  waiter, 
a  bowl  of  stew  and  a  cup  of  coffee. 

He  found  a  newspaper  and  made  himself  com- 
fortable in  this  secure  nook  until  the  coming  of 
"  Boston  Ed." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

PROMPTLY  at  eleven  o'clock  the  man  with 
the  birthmark  under  his  left  eye  showed  his 
face  in  the  door  of  the  little  room  back  of 
Deefy's  bar. 

"  Bill,"  he  whispered,  a  wide  grin  spreading 
over  his  homely  and  splotched  countenance. 

"  Yes." 

"  She's  outside." 

Hawkins  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"  Set  still,  Bill,"  commanded  "  Boston  Ed." 
"  I  got  it  fixed  with  Deefy.  You  two  can  have 
the  room  all  to  yourselves  for  awhile.  He  under- 
stands. You  can  talk  all  you  want,  Bill.  I'll 
keep  an  eye  on  the  door  and  sip  a  couple  of  bran- 
nigans." 

He  withdrew  his  head  and  in  a  few  moments  a 
woman  was  shoved  into  the  little  room  and  the 
door  banged  tight  behind  her. 

The  sunken  eyes  of  the  old  probationer  seemed 
to  be  suddenly  covered  with  a  haze.  Tears  flowed 


THE  QUARRY  247 

down  his  cheeks.  His  long  arms  were  out- 
stretched. 

"Jennie!" 

The  woman,  a  slender,  tired  creature,  with  the 
marks  of  years  of  physical  toil  upon  her,  sobbed. 
She  tried  to  advance  to  the  outstretched  arms  but 
her  legs  refused  to  move. 

"  Bill!    Oh,  my  God,  Bill!    At  last!    At  last!  " 

The  words  came  from  her  brokenly,  as  the 
breast  under  her  plain,  black  waist  heaved  con- 
vulsively. 

Her  body  began  to  sway  and  he  sprang  to  her 
and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

When  the  joy  of  this  world-weary  couple, 
sadly  mingled  with  grief,  had  been  spent,  they  sat 
close  together  at  the  table  clasping  each  other's 
hands. 

"  I'm  a  different  man,  Jennie,"  said  Hawkins. 
"  I'm  a  different  man.  The  faith  of  God  has  come 
to  me." 

"  How'd  you  get  it,  Bill  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  They  sent  up  a  boy  for  life  and  he  was  in- 
nocent," he  told  her.  "  The  boy  never  done  a 
wrong  thing.  The  cops  put  it  on  him.  But  he 
never  flickered  and  he  prayed  every  morning  and 


248  THE   QUARRY 

night.  I  helped  him  escape  and  now  he  wants  me. 
I'm  going  to  find  him  and  find  out  if  he  needs  any 
more  help." 

She  pressed  his  hands  in  her  own  when  he 
paused. 

"  I  thought  of  our  own  boy  who  would  'a'  been 
his  age,"  he  went  on.  "  I  got  to  love  him  —  he 
was  that  kind  and  gentle.  He  was  always  think- 
ing of  his  own  poor,  old  mother  and  she  died  with- 
out seeing  him  after  they  sent  him  up." 

"  Poor  lad." 

"  Yes,  but  he  was  a  brave  one." 

"  And  they  gave  you  a  probation,  Bill?  " 

"  Yes,  but  only  so's  they  could  follow  me  and 
get  the  boy." 

He  suppressed  a  desire  to  rip  out  an  oath 
against  his  old  enemies. 

"  But  how  about  you,  Jennie?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  been  working  right  along,  Bill,"  she 
replied.  "  One  time  I  thought  I  would  blow  up  but 
somehow  I  got  my  strength  and  pulled  out  all 
right.  There  was  plenty  of  men  after  me  when  I 
was  still  pretty,  Bill,  but  I  been  true  to  you,  old 
man.  I  been  true  to  you,  my  Bill." 

He  patted  her  thin  shoulders. 


THE  QUARRY  249 

"  When  I  come  out  of  Sing  Sing  after  my  first 
bit  I  heard  you  was  going  down  the  line  and  I  got 
sick  and  turned  away  from  you,  Jennie." 

"  There's  always  people  who  want  to  see  a 
helpless  woman  helped  to  hell,"  she  said  bitterly. 
"  I  never  done  nothing  wrong,  Bill.  I  was  tempted 
when  I  was  hungry  and  just  out  of  Bellevue  but 
I  stuck  out  on  the  level,  old  man.  So  help  me 
God,  I  did." 

"  Jennie,  if  you'd  gone  plumb  to  the  middle 
of  hell  I'd  come  for  you,"  he  said.  One  of  his  long 
arms  was  about  her  shoulder.  She  rested  her  head 
in  its  bend. 

"  You  tired,  Jennie? "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Bill." 

"  You  want  to  go  home?  " 

"  Yes;  let's  go  home.  I  gotta  place  ready  for 
you." 

His  eyes  glistened  with  love  for  the  woman  who 
was  again  to  be  his  helpmeet. 

"  I'm  afraid  to,  Jennie,"  he  told  her  after  a 
pause.  '  The  bull's  been  after  me  all  day." 

"  When  can  you  come,  Bill?  " 

"  Soon's  I  see  the  young  man.  I  gotta  reach  him 
first  and  then  I'll  send  for  you  or  come  for  you." 


250  THE  QUARRY 

"  Is  he  far  away?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  you  going  to  get  there?  " 

"  Work  my  way." 

She  loosened  her  waist  and  pulled  out  a  roll  of 
bills. 

"  I  brought  this  for  you,  Bill,"  she  said.  "  I 
know'd  you  would  want  some.  I  got  six  hundred 
in  the  bank  now  and  there's  two  hundred." 

He  hesitated  about  taking  the  money. 

"  You  gotta  take  it,  Bill,"  she  said.  "  It  will 
bring  you  back  to  me  sooner  and  you  can  pay 
it  back  in  no  time." 

He  took  a  hundred  dollars  of  the  money. 

"  Boston  Ed  "  tapped  on  the  door  and  then 
poked  in  his  face. 

"  How's  the  old  folks?  "  he  asked. 

They  smiled  at  him  in  gratitude  for  his  kindness. 

"  The  party  breaking  up?  " 

"  Yes;  you  get  Jennie  home  safe  for  me;  I 
gotta  slope  out  of  town,"  said  Bill. 

Husband  and  wife  embraced  and  the  old  pro- 
bationer slipped  from  the  room,  made  his  way 
through  the  gesticulating  deaf  and  dumb  patrons 
of  the  saloon  and  disappeared  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN  his  mountain  refuge    there  were   hours  of 
loneliness  which  beset  John  Nelson.     He  real- 
ized that  the  more  he  achieved  in  life  and  the 
greater  grew  his  love  for  Molly  Bryan  the  more 
terrible  would  be  the   reckoning   for  him  should 
the  police  ever  corner  him.     The  oppressiveness 
of  these  hours  became  such  that  he  looked  about 
for  a  mental  occupation  that  would  serve  to  drive 
from  his  thoughts  the  fear  that  seemed  to  fasten 
on  him  with  tighter  grip  as  the  weeks  passed. 

In  the  Dark  Corner  he  was  the  only  man  with 
money  and  sufficient  warmth  and  food  and  shelter 
sound  enough  to  make  actual  physical  existence 
bearable  in  winter.  The  poverty  of  the  mountain 
families  was  but  little  short  of  the  poverty  of 
despair.  Many  of  them  lived  through  the  sea- 
sons with  never  the  possession  of  money,  getting 
their  food  from  their  patches  of  open  ground  and 
their  clothes  by  trading. 

The  majority  of  the  people  about  him  could  not 


252  THE   QUARRY 

read.  Some  of  them  had  never  heard  of  Christ.  As 
he  had  turned  to  the  poor  in  the  mill  section  of 
Greenville,  he  turned  to  the  mountaineers  of  the 
Dark  Corner.  With  one  of  his  negro  servants 
he  made  excursions  from  his  castle,  going  from 
cabin  to  cabin,  finding  out  what  was  needed  most 
and  giving  freely.  On  these  Samaritan  trips  he 
carried  a  pocket  Bible  and  when  he  could  find  an 
excuse  for  so  doing  he  would  read  to  them  the 
message  that  packs  the  Book  from  Genesis  to 
Revelation,  that  the  mercy  of  God  shall  endure 
forever. 

The  bearded  hermit  was  always  welcome.  He 
would  not  drink  of  the  liquor  they  made  in  their 
hidden  stills  and  at  first  they  thought  this  strange. 
They  soon  found  that  he  was  a  man  of  peace  and 
good-will  and  when  they  realized  that  his  motive 
was  unselfish  love  for  mankind,  he  grew  so  in 
their  esteem  that  he  was  able  to  end  many  of  their 
bitter  family  quarrels. 

No  law  reached  these  people  of  the  mountains 
save  when  some  daring  revenue  spy  would  come 
in  disguise  as  a  pedler  and  raid  their  stills.  The 
arrest  and  conviction  of  the  head  of  a  family 
meant  a  woman  and  children  left  on  the  mountain- 


THE   QUARRY  253 

sides,  sometimes  to  starve.  Nelson  tided  such 
families  through  the  period  of  imprisonment  of 
their  protectors.  As  he  thus  exerted  himself  in 
their  behalf,  his  words  carried  more  weight  with 
them  and  his  simple  doctrine  of  kindness  and 
mercy  began  to  have  telling  effect. 

On  the  edge  of  his  estate  he  built  a  pine  church 
with  a  tiny  spire  tipping  the  tree  line.  Here  he 
provided  a  pulpit  for  the  mission  priests  and  cir- 
cuit riders  who  traveled  the  mountain  paths. 
Here  he  made  a  place  for  the  Word  of  God  and 
not  for  the  word  of  a  Diet  or  a  Conference. 

The  people  were  as  primitive  and  as  unworldly 
as  children.  They  never  stole,  they  never  lied 
and  they  knew  nothing  of  cheating.  They  sold 
the  corn  liquor  they  made  without  paying  the 
government  tax  because  it  was  the  only  product 
they  could  get  from  the  grain  that  would  pay 
them  enough  to  keep  their  children  alive.  They 
were  too  poor  to  distill  in  quantities  large  enough 
to  bring  them  in  sufficient  returns  to  meet  the 
revenue  demand. 

In  such  good  work  Nelson  realized  the  true 
value  of  wealth.  To  give  to  others  was  the  great 
privilege  he  had  gained  by  his  skill  and  the  mas- 


254  THE   QUARRY 

tery  of  his  craft.  The  simple  devotion  of  the 
people  he  helped  repaid  him  a  thousandfold  for 
his  humane  efforts. 

The  snow  of  the  first  winter  in  his  mountain 
home  began  to  fly  and  Nelson  made  a  trip  into  the 
city  to  secure  the  copies  of  the  Herald  he  had  com- 
missioned a  newsdealer  to  save  for  him.  He  spent 
part  of  a  day  with  Mr.  Bryan  and  Lansing  and 
then,  the  floor  of  his  car  thick  with  the  accumu- 
lated newspapers,  hastened  back  to  his  castle. 

That  night,  before  a  log  fire  in  his  study,  he 
spread  the  copies  of  the  Herald  on  a  large  table 
and  arranged  them  in  order  of  their  issue.  Far 
into  the  night  he  scanned  the  personal  columns 
until  his  eyes  ached  and  he  was  compelled  to  re- 
tire. 

The  next  night  he  resumed  his  search  and,  with 
a  shout  of  delight,  discovered  the  reply  of  Haw- 
kins: 

"  Kid.  —  O.  K.  December.  —  Bill." 

The  old  convict  had  managed  in  some  way  to 
get  his  release  from  prison.  He  was  coming  to 
him,  he,  of  all  the  men  who  could  help  him,  the 
only  man  he  could  trust  with  his  secret.  Into 


THE   QUARRY  255 

Bill's  hands  he  would  give  the  wealth  he  had  ac- 
quired, give  it  freely,  gladly,  that  he  might  spend 
it  in  the  hunt  for  the  man  whose  arrest  and  con- 
viction would  take  from  him  the  disgrace  put 
upon  him  by  the  law  that  had  worked  abortively. 

Hope  that  had  practical  reason  back  of  it  filled 
him.  Molly  was  nearer  to  him  than  she  had  ever 
been  since  the  day  he  first  saw  her  sweet  face 
and  heard  her  lovely  voice.  He  felt  as  if  he  could 
go  to  her  even  then,  for  he  was  filled  with  con- 
fidence newly  born. 

With  Bill  amply  supplied  with  money  and  ex- 
ploring the  underworld  for  the  real  murderer, 
he  and  Molly  might  become  married.  By  early 
spring  he  would  finish  his  most  important  inven- 
tion, a  new  knitting  machine  that  would  replace 
those  already  made.  He  would  put  up  a  knitting 
mill  in  conjunction  with  the  textile  mills  and  have 
his  own  plant.  He  could  bring  Molly  to  his  castle 
until  the  day  came  when  Bill  would  bring  in  his 
quarry. 

Molly  and  her  father  had  made  the  trip  to  his 
home  and  workshop  once  during  the  previous 
summer.  Nelson  had  kept  sacred  the  chair  she  had 
used.  A  handkerchief  she  had  left  on  his  working 


256  THE   QUARRY 

desk  he  allowed  to  remain  there  undisturbed  save 
when  he  would  pick  it  up  and  press  it  to  his  lips. 

He  was  still  holding  the  paper  in  his  hands 
and  dreaming  of  love  and  happiness  and  content 
when  the  telephone  rang.  It  was  nine  o'clock. 
He  picked  up  the  receiver  eagerly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  he  recognized  her  voice. 

"  It  is  nearing  Christmas  time,"  she  told  him, 
a  plaintive  note  in  her  voice. 

"  I  must  shop  for  the  mountain  children,"  he  told 
her.  "  I  had  almost  forgotten." 

"  You  are  coming  into  Greenville,  then  ?  " 

"Yes;   I  must." 

"  You  will  need  more  than  a  single  day." 

He  tried  to  protest  that  his  work  was  pressing. 

"  You  are  going  to  stay  with  us  for  a  good  part 
of  the  holidays,"  she  told  him  decisively.  "  Father, 
mother,  Jim  and  I  all  insist  and  we  will  not  take 
a  refusal.  You  must  start  next  Wednesday 
morning  early  and  I  shall  meet  you  in  my  motor 
on  Paris  Mountain." 

The  thought  of  being  near  her  for  an  entire 
day,  for  two  days  or  more,  perhaps,  thrilled  him 
and  tempted  him  to  leave  his  hiding  place.  The 
peace  of  her  father's  household,  the  charm  and 


THE   QUARRY  257 

grace  of  life  there,  the  music  in  the  evenings  with 
the  logs  burning  and  the  bright  silver  winking 
back  to  the  flames,  his  share  in  blissful  domesticity, 
all  these  things  flashed  through  his  mind. 

"  Then,  if  I  must,"  he  told  her,  "  I  shall  be  on 
Paris  Mountain  next  Wednesday." 

His  hands  trembled  as  he  replaced  the  receiver 
and  picked  up  his  square  and  compass.  He  tried 
to  begin  work  on  his  plans  but  gave  it  up. 

In  every  tone  of  every  word  she  had  spoken  over 
the  telephone  there  was  a  message  of  love  that 
he  could  not  mistake.  Even  a  little  sigh  had  come 
to  him  trembling  through  the  thread  of  wire  strung 
over  the  mountains. 

Her  hand  was  his  for  the  asking.  Her  heart  was 
already  his.  Within  his  grasp  was  the  greatest 
happiness  God  could  give  a  man,  the  right  to 
love  and  hold  forever  a  pure  and  beautiful  woman 
who  loved  him. 

He  paced  the  floor  of  the  room,  his  mind  filled 
with  an  exquisite  dream-life.  She  would  share 
this  house  with  him,  be  its  mistress,  bring  to  it 
the  subtle  fragrance  and  sweetness  which  she 
alone  possessed.  In  winter  and  in  times  of  storm 
her  smile  would  fill  his  home  with  a  radiance 


258  THE  QUARRY 

sweeter  and  more  blessed  than  the  sunshine  of 
spring. 

She  would  come  tiptoeing  to  his  door  as  he 
worked  with  his  machinery.  She  would  look  in 
and  he  would  stop  at  his  task  long  enough  to 
welcome  her  and  to  sip  of  the  sweetness  of  her 
lips  and  feel  the  warmth  of  her  love  as  her  arms 
clasped  his  neck.  He  sank  into  her  chair  and 
picked  up  the  handkerchief,  a  filmy  bit  of  linen, 
pressing  it  to  his  lips. 

Ten  o'clock  passed  and  eleven  struck  as  he  sat 
in  silent  and  happy  dreaming.  Suddenly  the 
handkerchief  dropped  from  his  hands  and  his  face 
showed  white  as  a  sheet  of  paper  in  the  light  of  his 
student's  lamp. 

He  had  heard  some  one  moving  outside  the 
house.  There  had  been  the  crackle  of  frozen 
snow. 

His  three  black  servants  were  far  off  in  their 
cottage  for  the  night.  Who  was  this  marauder? 

Again  came  the  sound.  Some  one  was  surely 
walking  beneath  his  windows. 

Nelson  dropped  to  his  hands  and  knees,  crept 
to  the  wall  and  turned  an  electric  switch,  plunging 
the  house  in  darkness  from  cellar  to  attic. 


THE   QUARRY  259 

Against  the  many  windows  of  his  castle  showed 
the  snow-laden  boughs  of  the  trees  in  a  glow  that 
came  from  the  reflection  of  the  white  pall  cover- 
ing the  earth. 

He  felt  for  his  wallet,  which  held  the  money  he 
was  to  use  in  the  event  of  flight  becoming  neces- 
sary; it  was  in  his  pocket.  A  step  and  he  was  at 
his  desk.  He  opened  a  drawer  softly.  In  his 
right  hand  showed  the  dark  outline  of  a  blue- 
steel  revolver.  His  dreams  of  love  had  vanished. 
He  was  again  the  escaped  convict  making  a  fight 
for  the  liberty  he  had  stolen. 

The  snow  was  not  deep  enough  to  impede  his 
motor.  He  hurried  to  the  secret  entrance  to  his 
garage,  opened  the  masked  door  and  stood  waiting 
at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  narrow  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

AS  Nelson  stood  in  the  darkness  of  the  room, 
holding  his  breath,  he  felt  the  weight  of  the 
pistol  in  his  right  hand  and  the  thought 
came  to  him  that  should  there  be  only  that  one 
man  —  Michael  Kearney  —  he  would  be  tempted 
to  slay. 

On  the  blue  nose  of  his  weapon  was  screwed  a 
Maxim  silencer.  The  voice  of  death  would  be 
dropped  to  a  whisper.  The  end  of  the  sleuth 
would  never  be  known  by  the  outside  world. 

Before  him  loomed  the  brown  horror  of  a  cell 
and  sunless,  skyless  days.  The  heart  of  Molly 
Bryan  would  be  broken  as  the  heart  of  his  mother 
had  been  broken. 

If  he  killed  would  it  not  be  in  self-defense  and  in 
the  highest  and  fullest  meaning  of  the  phrase? 
There  are  things  worse  than  death. 

There  was  a  slight  sound  against  the  side  of  the 
house  beneath  the  window  he  faced.  Whoever 
this  was,  coming  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  would 


THE   QUARRY  261 

soon  show  his  head  over  the  sill.     The  weight  of 
the  revolver  in  his  hand  seemed  to  increase. 

Not  a  man  among  his  neighbors  would  have 
hesitated  to  slay  under  the  circumstances  and  to 
shout  with  triumph  at  the  fall  of  his  enemy.  Not 
a  man  among  them  would  do  other  than  rally 
to  his  aid,  even  though  a  great  company  of  ene- 
mies encompassed  him.  But  he  was  no  man  to 
take  human  life.  He  realized  it  suddenly.  Mois- 
ture exuded  from  his  fingers  and  blurred  the  steel 
of  his  weapon  in  the  dark. 

He  had  said  to  himself  that  no  one  would  know 
of  the  death  of  the  relentless  hound  that  had  pur- 
sued him  from  a  pit  of  despond  to  Arcady.  God 
and  his  conscience  would  know  it! 

He  crossed  the  room  on  his  toes  rapidly  and  re- 
placed the  weapon  in  his  desk. 

The  terrible  injustice  that  had  blasted  his  life 
at  twenty-one,  that  had  scarred  and  branded  him 
forever,  that  had  sent  his  sweet,  patient,  little 
mother  to  a  sorrowful  death  and  that  had  penned 
him  in  a  cage  for  the  first  five  years  of  his  maturity, 
had  drawn  him  closer  to  his  Maker. 

He  might  have  been  called  a  coward  but  his 
sorrows,  his  anxieties,  his  flight  and  his  struggle 


262  THE   QUARRY 

to  keep  himself  pure  and  true,  even  in  this  moment 
of  extreme  torture  of  fear,  had  found  him  holding 
to  and  trusting  in  his  faith  in  God.  Unarmed,  he 
stood  at  the  little  door,  poised  for  flight. 

A  sound  came  from  the  window-sill,  and  was 
repeated.  It  came  steadily  for  a  few  seconds  and 
ended  with  a  snap,  as  the  latch  over  the  window 
sash  gave  under  the  upward  pressure  of  a  jimmy. 
The  sash  was  raised,  slowly,  cautiously. 

A  man's  head,  covered  with  a  black,  slouch  hat, 
showed  over  the  sill,  then  a  pair  of  shoulders,  and 
a  long-armed  creature  was  in  the  room,  landing  as 
lightly  on  his  toes  as  if  he  had  been  a  trained 
trapeze  performer.  The  man  was  not  Kearney! 

Nelson's  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  darkness, 
recognized  the  heavy  shoulders  and  the  squat 
figure. 

"  Bill!  "  he  whispered,  repressing  a  cry  of  joy 
that  rose  from  his  heart. 

"  Kid!  "  came  the  answer. 

They  strode  to  each  other  and  clasped  hands. 

"  Is  it  safe,  boy?  "  asked  the  old  burglar.  "  Is 
there  any  one  else  in  the  house?  " 

"  Not  a  soul." 

"  Thank  God." 


THE   QUARRY  263 

"  Come  to  the  top  floor;  it  will  be  even  safer 
there." 

Nelson  took  the  old  man  to  the  attic,  drew  the 
blinds  and  switched  on  a  light. 

He  looked  at  the  old  convict  for  a  moment  and 
then  placed  his  arms  about  his  shoulders  as  would 
a  son  embracing  a  father  after  long  years  of  sep- 
aration. He  remembered  his  bleeding  fingers  as 
he  toiled  in  the  dark  in  their  cell,  making  the 
gray  suit  of  clothes;  he  remembered  the  words  of 
comfort  his  lips  had  spoken,  when  he  received 
news  of  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  of  his 
sacrifice  for  him  when  he  took  all  the  blame 
for  the  possession  of  the  clothes  he  had  made 
so  futilely. 

Bill  stood  in  the  glare  of  the  light,  scanning  the 
face  of  the  younger  man,  the  man  whose  prayers 
had  inspired  him  and  from  whose  lips  had  come 
that  old,  humane  expression  of  Christian  charity 
and  compassion:  "  It  wasn't  her  fault!  " 

"  Boy,"  said  the  old  probationer,  "  I  come  to 
you  because  I  knew  you  needed  me.  That  hound 
at  headquarters  turned  me  loose  so  that  he  could 
follow  me  and  get  you." 

Nelson  started. 


264  THE   QUARRY 

"  But  don't  worry,"  Hawkins  assured  him, 
"  for  I'm  an  old  fox  and  hard  to  follow." 

"  Why  did  you  come  in  by  the  window?  " 

"  It  was  the  safest  way,"  explained  Bill.  "  Al- 
though I  felt  certain  that  no  one  was  shadowing 
me,  I  could  not  be  dead  sure.  So  I  thought  I'd 
come  in  as  a  burglar  and  if  there  was  any  shadow 
after  me,  he'd  think  I  was  back  in  the  old  game. 
If  I  was  caught,  they'd  get  me  for  the  old  sin. 
The  shadow  wouldn't  know  that  John  Nelson 
was  Jim  Montgomery." 

Hawkins  dropped  into  a  chair,  looked  about 
the  room  and  began  studying  the  bars,  weights 
and  trapezes. 

"  Them  things?  "  he  asked,  with  the  wave  of  a 
hand. 

"  I  work  with  them  every  day  and  have  changed 
my  measurements,"  explained  Nelson.  "  I  am 
taller  and  broader  and  my  arms  and  legs  are 
longer." 

Hawkins  nodded. 

"  I  doubt   if  they'd   recognize   you,"  he  said. 

"  How  did  you  find  me?  "  asked  Nelson.  "  I 
was  afraid  to  put  a  name  in  the  personal." 

"  After  I  reached  Greenville,  it  didn't  take  me 


THE   QUARRY  265 

long  to  hear  about  John  Nelson,"  he  replied.  "  I 
mingled  with  the  machinists  as  a  laborer,  heard 
about  your  inventions  and  success  and  about  your 
work  with  the  poor  people.  I  knew  you  were 
Nelson.  But  I  didn't  dare  send  you  a  note  or 
get  in  touch  with  you  in  the  daylight.  I  been 
hunted  too  long  to  run  any  chances.  When  I 
found  out  where  your  place  was,  I  traveled  on 
foot.  I  got  a  bed  and  lodging  in  a  cabin  two  miles 
away.  As  soon  as  everybody  was  asleep,  I  slipped 
out  of  the  cabin  and  here  I  am." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  I  know  what  you  thinking  about,  Kid,"  said 
Hawkins  finally. 

"  The  guilty  man,"  Nelson  said  slowly. 

"  You  want  me  to  try  to  get  him." 

"  Yes;  I  have  plenty  of  money  now  but  I  did 
not  dare  hire  detectives." 

"  They  couldn't  get  him  after  ten  years." 

"  Can  any  one  find  him?  " 

Bill  felt  the  anxiety  and  eagerness,  the  hunger 
for  a  real  hope,  in  Nelson's  voice. 

"  If  any  one  can  get  him  I'm  the  one,"  he  re- 
plied slowly.  "  I'm  gonna  get  him,  too.  I  gotta 
get  him,  boy.  I  owe  you  something  more  than  a 


266  THE   QUARRY 

few  years  out  of  '  stir.'  '  His  voice  quavered  with 
emotion. 

"  You  put  a  God  in  my  brain  and  heart,"  he 
went  on.  "  You  made  a  soul  come  to  life  in  my 
old  body."  In  his  sunken  eyes  there  was  a  luster 
that  made  beneficent  the  deep-lined  face.  "  I 
found  my  old  girl,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause 
in  which  he  mastered  his  feelings.  "  You  made 
me  want  to  find  her  and,  thank  God,  I  found  her  a 
good  and  patient  woman  and  glad  to  have  her 
man  back.  I'm  some  different,  Kid.  I'm  some 
different  and  I  owe  it  to  you.  I'm  going  after 
that  man  who  let  you  be  sent  up  for  life  and  I'm 
going  to  get  him  and  drag  him  to  the  office  of 
the  district  attorney,  if  I  get  there  with  my  head 
caved  in." 

The  old  man  had  risen  from  his  chair.  The 
fire  in  him  had  flashed  into  life  again,  and  he  looked 
as  strong  as  an  old  ring  warrior. 

"  What  time  is  it?  "  he  demanded  suddenly. 

Nelson  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Half  after  midnight,"  he  said. 

"  I  must  beat  it  back  to  the  cabin.  I  want  to 
keep  you  covered  right." 

Nelson  took  his  wallet  from  his  pocket. 


THE   QUARRY  267 

"  Here  is  plenty  of  money,  Bill,"  he  said. 
"  Take  it  and  use  it.  It  isn't  a  loan  or  a  gift. 
What  is  mine  is  yours.  Spend  all  that  is  necessary. 
I  am  a  rich  man.  You  were  the  means  of  my 
achieving  wealth." 

"  Guess  I'll  need  some  of  it,"  the  probationer 
said.  "  I'll  take  it,  anyhow,  and  when  all  comes 
out  right  I'll  account  to  you  for  it.  Then  my  old 
woman  and  I  will  come  down  here  and  work  for 
you." 

Nelson  placed  a  hand  affectionately  on  the 
old  man's  shoulder. 

"  Does  a  son  let  his  father  work  for  him?  " 
he  asked.  "  No!  I'll  work  for  you,  Bill,  many 
years,  God  willing." 

They  left  the  attic  and  from  the  dark  room 
below  Bill  Hawkins  stepped  to  the  window-sill 
and  in  a  few  moments  was  in  the  snow-covered 
road  leading  from  the  grounds. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A  STORM,  springing  from  Carib  seas,  had 
swept  northward  along  the  Florida  and 
Georgia  shores.  Down  from  the  north 
came  the  tail-end  of  a  big  blizzard;  the  two  met 
off  the  Carolina  coast. 

The  two  big  winds  were  split  asunder,  each 
into  two  shrieking,  invisible,  routed  armies  of  the 
air.  The  left  flank  of  the  storm  from  the  north 
shot  oceanward  and  parallel  with  the  right  flank 
of  the  howling  gale  from  the  Caribs.  The  left 
flank  of  the  tropical  storm  went  westward  and  to- 
ward the  under  hills  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  sweeping 
beside  the  right  flank  of  the  northern  tempest. 

In  the  wild  rush  of  temperatures  seeking  normal 
levels,  heat  and  cold  mingled  in  the  South  Carolina 
mountains  and  a  deluge  of  rain  resulted. 

Mighty  Caesar's  Head,  King's  Mountain  and 
Paris  Mountain  were  washed  clear  of  snow  by  the 
torrent.  The  wind  skirled  in  leafless  boughs  and 


THE  QUARRY  269 

branches,  howled  through  ravines  and  gorges 
in  mountainsides  and  the  flood  made  the  Saluda 
pick  up  its  bed  and  rush  away  even  as  did  the  man 
who  lay  ill  and  was  made  well  by  a  miracle. 

The  mountain  roads  were  torn  and  ripped  by 
the  flood;  they  gave  up  the  frost  in  them  and  the 
red  clay  was  turned  to  a  series  of  twisted  ribbons. 

With  the  clatter  of  a  dozen  rapid-fire  guns  came 
a  low-swung  automobile  with  unusually  heavy 
tires,  high  mud  guards  and  huge  oil  tank  toward 
the  crest  of  Paris  Mountain  from  the  west.  A 
screen  of  mud  and  water  half  obscured  the  driver. 
Big  goggles  hid  his  eyes.  Occasionally  he  would 
lift  a  hand  from  the  wheel  and  scrape  the  mud 
from  them  or  dash  it  from  his  iron-gray  beard. 

On  the  top  of  the  mountain,  standing  in  a  run- 
about type  of  machine,  a  girl  waited.  Her  left 
hand  shaded  her  eyes  as  she  peered  down  the 
mountainside,  watching  the  oncoming  car,  and 
she  steadied  her  slight  form  by  grasping  the  steer- 
ing gear. 

She  had  torn  a  racing  mask  from  her  face  and  it 
lay,  caked  with  red  clay,  on  the  driver's  seat 
behind  her.  Her  abundant  hair  had  fallen  from 
its  fastenings  and  the  wind  played  with  it  as  a 


270  THE  QUARRY 

great  cat  would  play  with  a  loose  hank  of  golden 
yarn. 

The  onrushing  motor  made  the  crest  of  the 
mountain  with  the  heavy  lurch  of  a  great  beast 
in  attack,  came  to  a  stop  and  shivered,  sending 
flecks  of  mud  shooting  to  right  and  left  as  the 
driver  pulled  himself  from  the  wheel  seat. 

Molly  Bryan  lifted  her  right  hand  high  in  the 
air  in  the  unconscious  salute  of  ancient  times. 

Stripping  himself  of  great  coat  and  goggles,  and 
tossing  them  into  his  machine,  John  Nelson  hurried 
to  her. 

"  I  saw  you  when  you  started  down  Glassy 
Mountain,"  she  said.  Her  face  was  pale.  "  I 
did  not  know  whether  you  would  make  it  safely." 
Her  left  hand  went  to  her  heart. 

"  I  was  afraid  that  you  might  be  hurt,"  she 
added. 

He  looked  up  into  her  eyes  and  saw  the  loving 
concern  in  them. 

His  beard  was  splashed  with  clay.  In  his  eyes 
was  the  effulgence  of  the  stars.  He  had  come, 
perilously  coursing  up  and  down  the  mountains, 
to  ask  her  aid  in  buying  Christmas  gifts,  in  the 
shops  of  the  little  city  nestling  below  them,  for 


THE   QUARRY  271 

the  little  children  of  the  poor  in  the  Dark  Corner. 
He  was  the  unconscious  instrument  of  one  of  the 
Beatitudes,  "  Blessed  are  the  poor." 

The  look  in  her  eyes,  the  trembling  of  the  hand 
she  extended  to  him,  the  quaver  in  her  soft  voice, 
the  quick  flush  that  replaced  the  pallor  of  her 
cheeks  as  she  read  the  love  message  in  his  look, 
gave  him  the  hint  that  she  expected  his  tongue  to 
utter  the  thoughts  that  rilled  his  mind. 

But  he  held  back  the  words.  He  was  still 
master  of  his  tongue,  but  no  man  with  love  in  his 
heart,  in  every  fiber  of  his  being  can  master  his 
soul.  He  was  not  certain  that  the  time  had  come 
when  he  might  tell  her  with  his  lips  how  he  loved 
her. 

It  was  sunset  but  there  was  no  setting  of  the 
sun,  for  the  storm  had  not  wholly  passed.  The 
clouds  in  the  west  piled  in  great  castles  and  turrets 
and  walls  without  color,  a  somber  city  for  some 
mighty  lord  in  the  land  of  phantasy. 

He  held  up  a  hand  to  her.  She  took  it  and 
started  to  step  from  her  car.  Her  heel  slipped  on 
the  wet  running  board  and  she  fell  against  his 
breast. 

Her  head  lay  on  his   shoulder  and,   with  the 


272  THE   QUARRY 

world  far  below  them  and  the  clouds  lowering 
about  them,  their  lips  met  in  the  kiss  of  betrothal. 

With  Molly  Bryan's  kiss  on  his  lips  and  sweet- 
ening his  life,  Nelson  found  himself  on  the  other 
side  of  the  chasm  he  had  shrunk  from  with  dread 
in  his  heart. 

The  thought  that  his  staunch  friend,  the  old 
convict,  was  off  on  the  hunt  for  the  man  he  dared 
not  himself  seek  brought  him  a  measure  of  assur- 
ance for  his  still  troubling  conscience. 

Then,  too,  Molly  took  total  possession  of  him 
and  banished  from  his  mind  all  concern  except 
the  moment's  concern.  He  felt  the  warmth  of  her 
sweet  woman's  body  and  its  soft  pressure  against 
his,  the  burn  and  tingle  of  her  flushed  cheeks. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bryan  were  anxiously  await- 
ing them  when  their  machines  swung  into  the 
broad  road  leading  through  the  estate  to  the 
mansion  which  crowned  it. 

"  Here's  Santa  Claus,"  Molly  shouted  to  her 
parents.  "  And  I  am  Mrs.  Santa  Claus."  She 
clasped  his  arm  and  clung  to  it  as  they  made  their 
way  up  the  piazza  steps. 

"  Mother  —  father,"  she  said,  "  John  and  I 
love  each  other.  He  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 


THE   QUARRY  273 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  the  mother  quietly. 

There  was  no  further  fighting  with  conscience 
now  and  no  room  for  heed  of  the  to-morrow. 
However  loudly  the  voice  of  duty  might  ring  he 
could  not  answer  it. 

"  May  I  have  her  for  better  or  for  worse?  "  he 
asked  the  parents. 

Mr.  Bryan's  face  had  paled.  "  Molly  must  talk 
with  her  mother,"  he  said.  -"  Will  you  join  me 
in  the  library  after  you  have  been  to  your  room, 
Nelson?" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  wind  puffed  down  the  great  chimney 
and  filled  Mr.  Bryan's  library  with  the 
fragrance  of  burning  oak  and  pine.  The 
logs  crackled  above  their  deepening  ashen  bed. 
The  night  had  come  and  the  well-shelved  room 
was  snug  with  the  glow  from  the  hearth. 

"  Nelson,"  began  Mr.  Bryan,  leaning  forward 
in  his  arm-chair,  "  you  are  asking  us  for  the  best 
we  have  — '•  our  only  daughter.  Are  you  worthy?  " 

"  I  have  tried  to  be." 

"  You  must  know  that  you  have  been  the  sub- 
ject of  gossip  because  you  have  lived  as  a  hermit." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  have  admitted  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  your  own  life  which  you  do  not  feel  that 
I,  Molly's  father,  should  share." 

"  I  know  it." 

"Have  you  anything  to  hide  from  me  now?" 

The  eyes  of  the  younger  man  stared  into  the 
fire.  The  dancing  flames  cast  grotesque  shadows 


THE   QUARRY  275 

on  his  bearded  face.  His  fingers  tightened  for  a 
moment  on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  If  he  were 
to  lie,  the  time  had  come  for  its  utterance,  but 
there  was  no  lie  within  the  man. 

"  I  cannot  give  you  my  confidence,"  he  replied. 
"  I  cannot,  now." 

"  Nelson,  my  measure  of  a  man  is  by  his  in- 
tegrity and  his  intelligence,"  Mr.  Bryan  urged. 
"  You  have  brains  and  industry.  Whether  you 
were  a  foundling  at  birth  or  a  child  of  the  streets 
in  the  North  will  not  weigh  heavily  in  my  de- 
cision." His  voice  was  kindly  and  assuring. 

"  My  boy,"  he  said,  "  you  must  open  your  heart 
to  me.  I  cannot  let  my  daughter  undertake  to 
share  your  life  with  her  eyes  blindfolded." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now,  Mr.  Bryan,"  Nelson 
repeated. 

"  Then  there  is  only  one  other  course  for  you  if 
you  refuse  to  trust  me,"  Mr.  Bryan  said. 

"And  that  is?" 

"  Tell  her.  Tell  her  everything.  She  is  of  the 
stamp  of  her  dear  mother.  She  is  a  young  woman 
but  a  brave  and  serious  one.  She  would  counte- 
nance nothing  that  would  bring  a  touch  of  dis- 
honor to  her  or  to  her  parents." 


276  THE   QUARRY 

"  Tell  —  her?  "  gasped  Nelson. 

"  Yes." 

Molly  entered  the  library,  coming  from  her 
mother,  radiant  with  smiles.  She  paused  as  she 
saw  the  pallor  of  her  lover's  face  and  the  serious 
look  upon  her  father's. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  she  demanded. 

Mr.  Bryan  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  together  for  awhile,"  he 
said,  as  he  left  the  room. 

"John!" 

With  his  name  on  her  lips  she  went  to  him,  and 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  Let  us  go  outside,  on  the  piazza,"  he  said. 
"  I  feel  as  though  I  should  choke  in  here.  There 
is  something  I  must  tell  you." 

She  turned  from  him  and  flung  wide  a  deep 
window.  The  night  scowled  at  them  as  they 
left  the  warm  and  lighted  room  for  the  rain  and  the 
dark. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  repeated. 

'*  That  you  love  me?  "    she  asked. 

"  Love  you?  "  he  repeated.  "  My  heart  is  torn 
with  love  for  you." 

"  Nothing  else  matters." 


THE   QUARRY  277 

She  crept  to  his  side  and  clasped  his  hands  in 
hers. 

"  Your  father  wants  to  know  who  I  am,"  he 
told  her. 

"  I  know  who  you  are.  You  are  John  Nelson, 
my  lover." 

"  He  wants  to  know  whence  I  came." 

"  From  heaven  —  to  me,"  she  answered,  with 
a  little  laugh  of  content  as  she  kissed  him. 

"  From  prison,"  he  said. 

"Prison?" 

Her  laugh  vied  with  the  tinkle  of  the  rain  in  a 
fountain  near  the  piazza. 

"  Why,  of  course  you  have  been  in  prison,"  she 
said  to  him.  "  You  have  locked  yourself  in  a 
cell  in  a  mountain  house  away  from  me,  your  sweet- 
heart who  loved  you  all  the  year." 

"  But  you  must  be  serious,"  he  bade  her. 
"  You  know  that  I  came  here  as  a  common  work- 
man. I  am  an  escaped  convict.  I  was  sent  to 
prison  in  the  North  for  life.  I  was  convicted 
of  —  " 

"  I  know  what  you  were  convicted  of,"  she 
whispered,  smothering  his  lips  with  her  own. 
"  You  were  convicted  of  being  too  kind  and  too 


278  THE   QUARRY 

good  to  your  fellow  man.  Christ  was  so  con- 
victed." 

The  words  fell  solemnly  from  her  lips,  and  they 
startled  Nelson. 

"  I  was  convicted  of  murder,"  he  said,  "  of 
murder  in  the  second  degree.  I  was  innocent. 
I  was  sentenced,  an  innocent  man,  to  life  in  prison. 
My  name  is  James  Montgomery  and  the  police 
seek  me." 

She  fell  back  from  him  for  a  moment,  the 
shadows  enshrouding  her.  But  she  did  not  leave 
him  for  long.  Her  arms  were  again  about  his 
neck  and  her  lips  turned  to  his. 

"  I  knew  that  you  had  been  hurt  by  some  one  or 
something,"  she  whispered,  pressing  her  cheek 
against  his.  "  You  do  not  need  to  tell  me  of  your 
innocence.  I  shall  share  your  sorrows  and  your 
joys  until  death  do  us  part." 

"  I  have  no  moral  right  to  marry  you,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  shall  take  me  for  your  wife,"  she 
cried.  "  I  shall  live  in  the  mountains  with  you  and 
never  leave  your  side  and,  if  they  come  for  you, 
they  shall  never  take  you  as  long  as  I  have  a 
breath  of  life.  They  can't  have  you,  my  sweet- 
heart. You  are  mine  until  death." 


She  fell  back  from  him  for  a  moment,  the  shadows 

enshrouding  her.  Page  278. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  eyes  of  Mike  Kearney's  mother  were 
becoming  very  dim  with  age.  She  no 
longer  leaned  from  the  window  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  her  homecoming  boy  at  mealtime. 
From  the  third  floor  of  the  little  old  house  in 
Oliver  Street  the  people  on  the  sidewalks  were 
blurred,  and  she  could  barely  distinguish  men  from 
women. 

Her  old  "  Key  of  Heaven  "  was  now  replaced 
by  a  volume  of  prayer  in  much  heavier  type  and 
she  wore  glasses  during  her  almost  constant  de- 
votions. 

As  the  detective  captain  in  charge  of  the  Homi- 
cide Bureau  at  headquarters,  Kearney  found  even 
less  time  to  turn  his  thoughts  away  from  the  busi- 
ness of  man  hunting.  A  new  generation  of  crim- 
inals had  sprung  up,  a  generation  to  be  gathered 
in,  introduced  to  the  third  degree,  "  mugged  and 
measured  "  and  catalogued. 

He  had  developed  some   excellent  sleuths  and 


280  THE   QUARRY 

was  beginning  to  feel  pleasure  in  watching  them 
advance  under  his  guidance  and  training.  He 
had  gained  the  title  of  "  New  York's  Best  Plain- 
clothes  Man "  and  Inspector  Ranscombe  had 
never  ceased  to  sing  his  praises  to  the  Com- 
missioner. 

Kearney's  only  recreation  was  still  his  home, 
and  the  sound  of  his  mother's  voice,  with  its 
pleasing  bit  of  brogue,  was  his  only  music.  But 
as  the  burden  of  her  years  became  heavier,  the 
strength  of  her  mind  was  sapped  slowly,  gradually. 
She  would  forget  things  that  had  happened  only 
an  hour  before  and  remember  things  vividly  and 
suddenly  that  had  happened  years  and  years 
past.  One  of  the  police  surgeons  had  advised 
Kearney  to  replace  her  beer  with  an  occasional 
drink  of  something  stronger,  so  that  rheumatism 
and  gouty  tendencies  might  not  be  added  to  the 
afflictions  of  her  fast  approaching  decrepitude. 

When  Mrs.  Kearney  was  served  with  her 
evening  sip  of  whiskey  and  water  by  her  son,  her 
tongue  would  begin  to  wag.  She  would  wander 
from  subject  to  subject  in  seemingly  interminable 
monologues.  Her  old  cronies  tried  in  vain  to 
stop  the  flow  of  her  garrulity,  so  that  their  own 


THE   QUARRY  281 

tongues  might  wag,  but  they  had  to  give  it  up  and 
so  they  called  less  frequently. 

But  Mike,  the  apple  of  her  eye,  to  whom  she 
was  all  the  world,  never  ceased  to  pretend  to  be 
interested,  as  he  sat  with  her  in  the  sunny  window 
of  her  spotless  kitchen. 

"  Now  I  remember  very  well,"  she  droned,  with 
quavering  voice  one  evening,  without  specific 
reference  to  any  one  in  particular.  "  I  remember 
very  well  that  she  was  quite  a  fine  lady;  wasn't 
she,  Mike?" 

"  She  was  that,  mother,"  replied  the  son, 
dragging  at  his  pipe.  "  She  was  a  grand  lady." 

"  No;  not  at  all  grand,"  she  protested,  "  for 
she  wasn't  of  the  r'yalty  kind.  She  was  quiet  and 
nice  and  dressed  so  simple." 

She  paused  and  picked  up  his  beer  bottle. 

"Is  it  empty,  Mike?"  she  asked.  "I  can't 
see  as  well  as  I  used  to  see,  lad.  Shall  I  get  you  a 
nice,  fresh,  cold  bottle?  " 

"  Thank  you,  mother." 

She  groped  to  the  window  and  raised  it,  taking 
a  bottle  from  the  fire  escape. 

The  springtime  had  come  again  and  a  gentle, 
warm  breeze  entered  the  room. 


282  THE   QUARRY 

"My!"  she  exclaimed,  "the  winter  has  gone 
at  last." 

She  fumbled  about  for  the  beer  opener.  He 
found  it  and  gave  it  to  her.  She  loved  to  do  things 
for  him  as  in  the  old  days  and  he  humored  her. 

"  It  was  just  after  I  was  gettin'  your  supper, 
lad,"  she  went  on.  "  Oh,  it  must  be  nearly  eleven 
years  now.  She  came  in  the  dure  and  stood  right 
there  so  solemn  and  sweet  like,  with  her  little 
bonnet  with  the  beads.  I  can  see  them  dancin' 
in  the  gaslight  now.  You  could  tell  in  a  minute 
she  didn't  belong  in  the  nayborhood.  Yes,  blood 
tells.  She  must  have  had  it  in  her.  The  Mont- 
gomerys  are  the  best  of  Irish,  as  ye  know  or  ought 
to  know." 

"The  Montgomerys ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yis;  the  old  lady  whose  son  was  sint  up." 

The  subject  of  her  wandering  gossip  and  rem- 
iniscence changed  and  she  babbled  on.  Kearney 
settled  down  to  read  his  afternoon  paper  as  she 
talked. 

Her  voice  and  her  constant  loving  kindnesses 
were  all  that  he  had  in  life,  besides  his  job.  As 
he  noticed  that  her  mind  was  wandering  to  an. 
unusual  degree,  a  touch  of  fear  crept  into  his 


THE   QUARRY  283 

heart.  He  asked  himself  what  would  he  do  when 
she  was  gone.  She  always  kissed  him  when  he 
left  or  entered  the  flat,  and  she  was  always  busy 
with  his  undergarments,  his  collars,  his  bed  linen, 
his  meals,  his  beer. 

Could  any  other  woman  take  her  place?  He 
hunched  himself  in  his  chair,  a  sign  of  his  uneasi- 
ness. 

Kearney  had  decided  on  spring  for  his  vacation 
time.  During  pleasant  weather,  murder,  like 
hydrophobia,  is  rare.  He  could  best  afford  to 
leave  the  job  then.  Summer,  with  its  maddening 
days  for  those  packed  like  cattle  in  the  tenements, 
would  be  his  busiest  season. 

He  told  himself  that  after  this  vacation  he  would 
never  leave  his  mother  again.  He  had  arranged 
for  one  of  her  cronies  to  care  for  her  until  his 
return. 

Kearney  had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  a  trip 
south.  He  had  a  clue,  after  ten  years  of  patient 
waiting,  that  was  worth  looking  up.  The  change 
might  do  him  good  and  at  the  same  time  he  would 
have  something  to  occupy  his  mind. 

Some  one  had  placed  a  headstone  on  the  grave 
of  the  mother  of  James  Montgomery.  Some  one 


284  THE   QUARRY 

was  paying  the  keeper  of  the  cemetery  near  Nyack 
to  weed  the  little  plot  and  keep  it  bright  with, 
flowers. 

Careful  inquiry  had  shown  him  that,  save  for 
her  convict  son,  Mrs.  Montgomery  had  left  no 
relatives.  The  cemetery  keeper  had  been  cau- 
tiously questioned.  He  said  that  through  the  mails 
had  come  first  one  hundred  dollars  in  cash  with  a 
typewritten  note  to  the  effect  that  a  friend  of  the 
Montgomery  family  desired  the  grave  marked. 
Afterward  came  other  sums  to  pay  for  keeping  up 
the  plot. 

The  postmark  on  these  anonymous  communica- 
tions was  "  Greenville,  S.  C." 

Kearney  desired  to  go  to  Greenville  and  get 
in  touch  with  the  postal  authorities  there. 

Another  letter  would  be  mailed  from  that  town 
to  Nyack.  He  would  take  a  glimpse  of  the  man 
who  mailed  it. 

He  had  the  typewritten  notes.  If  he  failed  to 
find  his  man  through  the  post-office,  he  could  trace 
him  by  means  of  the  typing.  Every  typewriting 
machine  has  its  individuality,  just  as  has  every 
human  being.  The  type  of  no  two  machines 
strikes  exactly  alike.  He  would  find  the  machine 


THE   QUARRY  285 

and  then  find  the  man,  if  it  became  necessary 
to  go  about  it  in  that  way.  He  would  clear  up  the 
Montgomery  case  and  he  would  hold  the  record 
of  never  having  been  beaten  out  by  a  criminal. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

MICHAEL  KEARNEY  registered  at  the 
Mansion  House,  Greenville's  best  hotel, 
as  James  Flynn. 

In  his  room  he  unpacked  his  grip.  Among  other 
things  he  removed  was  a  long  and  wide  envelope. 
It  contained  a  letter  from  his  inspector  authorizing 
him. to  request  any  aid  he  might  need  in  the  name 
of  the  police  of  the  City  of  New  York. 

The  big  envelope  also  contained  a  certified 
copy  of  the  police  records  of  James  Montgomery, 
convicted  of  the  murder  of  Walter  Trueblood, 
night  watchman  of  the  West  End  National  Bank. 
These  records  included  photographs  in  full  face 
and  profile  and  the  Bertillon  measurements  and 
finger  prints.  There  was  also  a  warrant  drawn 
by  a  New  York  magistrate,  charging  James  Mont- 
gomery with  being  a  fugitive  from  justice  and  an 
escaped  convict. 

Kearney  did  not  trust  these  important  docu- 


THE  QUARRY  287 

ments  to  the  care  of  the  hotel  servants.  As  soon 
as  he  had  washed  his  face  and  combed  his,  shock 
of  hair,  he  went  to  the  office  of  the  hotel  man- 
ager and  had  them  deposited  in  his  safe. 

The  man  hunter  knew  from  the  soft  sound  of 
the  voices  he  heard  about  him  that  his  own  voice 
would  be  in  striking  contrast.  It  would  be  futile 
for  him  to  try  the  pose  of  a  Southerner.  So  he  let 
it  be  known  that  he  was  a  New  Yorker  who  wanted 
to  live  in  the  South  and  invest  a  limited  amount 
of  capital.  He  told  the  hotel  clerk  that  he  was 
looking  for  a  business  opening.  His  stolid  counte- 
nance gave  no  hint  of  his  calling.  His  general 
appearance  was  bourgeoise.  He  could  have  hung 
about  a  bank  door  or  a  saloon  entrance  for 
hours  without  causing  suspicion  or  creating  curi- 
osity. 

Kearney  left  the  hotel  to  look  over  the  city. 
He  coursed  its  two  or  three  business  streets  much 
as  a  hunting  dog  would  range,  in  its  preliminary 
run  over  a  field. 

He  got  the  points  of  the  compass  set  in  his 
mind,  the  general  location  of  buildings  and  the 
industrial,  business  and  residential  sections.  He 
studied  the  general  scheme  of  the  trolley  system 


288  THE   QUARRY 

and  took  rides  to  the  end  of  each  branch,  in- 
quiring about  cotton  mills  and  other  plants  with 
the  casual  questions  of  a  sightseer. 

He  had  not  forgotten  the  testimony  of  Mont- 
gomery that  he  was  an  apprentice  machinist  and 
he  remembered  the  story  of  the  boy's  anxiety  for 
his  kit  of  tools.  He  drifted  among  the  men  who 
handled  the  machinery  of  the  mills  with  a  story 
that  he  wanted  to  start  up  a  small  foundry  with 
a  partner  who  was  an  expert.  All  the  while  his 
keen  little  eyes  studied  closely  the  face  of  every 
man  he  met. 

After  several  days  of  preliminary  scouting,  he 
visited  the  office  of  the  United  States  District 
Attorney  for  the  Greenville  district.  He  explained 
his  mission  and  showed  his  credentials.  He  asked 
the  District  Attorney  to  extend  to  the  police  of 
New  York  his  aid  in  intercepting  a  letter  that 
would  be  mailed  in  Greenville  to  a  certain  address 
in  Nyack,  N.  Y. 

Letters  from  one  man  had  been  mailed  quarterly 
to  Nyack  from  the  mountain  city.  One  should  be 
mailed  during  the  first  days  of  June.  If  possible, 
he  desired  to  see  the  man  who  mailed  it.  If  he 
could  find  nothing  more  than  the  point  at  which 


THE   QUARRY  289 

the  letter  was  mailed,  that  would  help,  for  it. 
would  narrow  his  field  of  inquiry. 

The  United  States  District  Attorney  knew  only 
that  a  search  was  being  made  for  an  escaped  con- 
vict. The  police  of  the  great  cities  and  the  United 
States  Secret  Service  generally  work  in  harmony, 
so  the  District  Attorney  turned  over  the  detective 
to  a  postal  inspector. 

With  the  inspector,  Kearney  studied  the  work- 
ing of  the  Greenville  post-office.  He  learned  that 
the  big  mills  sent  their  mail  in  their  own  bags  by 
messengers  who  received  the  incoming  mail  and 
took  it  away.  Certain  clerks  handled  this  business 
entirely.  Every  mail-bag  from  a  mill  would  be 
watched  carefully  and  if  a  letter  addressed  to 
Nyack  was  found  in  one  of  them,  Kearney  would 
be  given  it  and  he  would  know  that  in  that  partic- 
ular mill  was  the  man  he  wanted.  The  rest  would 
be  only  a  matter  of  patience  and  Kearney  had 
plenty  of  patience.  It  was  his  long  suit. 

There  were  not  more  than  fifty  mail-boxes  in 
the  city.  The  letters  dropped  in  each  of  these 
would  be  watched.  The  average  man  would  have 
said  that  Kearney  was  looking  for  a  needle  in 
a  haystack.  If  he  was,  he  was  going  about  it 


290  THE   QUARRY 

systematically.  He  was  separating  the  stack  into 
easily  handled  sheaves  and  having  a  man  go 
through  each. 

The  New  York  sleuth  observed  that  the  letter- 
boxes in  the  post-office  building  were  heavily 
patronized.  Country  folk  bought  their  stamps 
one  at  a  time  and  liked  to  wait  for  the  distribution 
of  the  mails.  This  gave  them  a  chance  to  ex- 
change gossip,  talk  business  and  indulge  in  polit- 
ical arguments.  Then,  too,  there  were  several 
hundred  private  letter-boxes,  bringing  to  the 
building  as  many  people  of  the  well-to-do  class. 

Kearney  determined  to  give  his  personal  at- 
tention to  the  people  who  came  and  went  from 
the  building.  He  was  back  on  the  trail  after 
eleven  years.  Indeed,  eleven  years  were  as  eleven 
days  to  him.  If  his  natural  span  of  life  had  been 
seventy  decades  instead  of  seven,  he  would  have 
been  patient  through  the  whole  seven  hundred 
years. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  pick  up  the  lost  tracks 
of  Hawkins  but  Hawkins  was  skilled  in  the  tricks 
of  the  underworld.  The  real  man  he  was  after 
had  been  but  a  country  boy  when  he  was  sent  up 
for  life.  In  dodging  the  law  he  had  big  chances 


THE   QUARRY  291 

against  him  because  of  his  inexperience.  He 
would  make  many  mistakes.  He  had  made  one  — 
sending  money  to  Nyack. 

It  is  a  police  axiom  that  even  the  most  careful 
of  criminals  sometimes  overlooks  an  important 
detail  in  covering  himself.  The  bank  teller  who 
steals  from  the  cashier,  the  cashier  who  steals 
from  the  president  and  the  president  who  steals 
from  the  stockholders  are  all  fallible. 

Kearney  watched  and  waited,  keeping  his  ears 
open  all  the  time  to  catch  the  gossip  of  a  smftrll  city. 
He  took  it  all  in  and  sifted  it. ,  In  his  eyes  was  the 
dull  stare  of  a  totally  uninterested  man.  His 
clean-shaven  face,  with  its  half-coarse  features, 
wore  a  blank  expression.  He  was  adept  in  de- 
ception, which  is  a  quality  to  be  considered  in  the 
art  of  detection. 

There  was  one  big  topic  that  seemed  to  hold  the 
attention  of  the  people  who  flocked  to  the  post- 
office  at  intervals  during  the  day.  It  was  the 
marriage  of  John  Nelson  to  Molly  Bryan,  the 
daughter  of  the  president  of  the  Reedy  River 
Cotton  Mill  Company. 

From  fragments  of  conversation,  Kearney 
learned  that  these  two  people  were  much  beloved, 


292  THE   QUARRY 

the  girl  because  of  her  beauty  and  her  earnest 
work  among  the  poor  of  the  mill  settlements,  and 
the  man  because  of  a  saintly  life. 

Through  the  buzz  and  hum  of  the  gossips, 
the  virtues  of  this  extraordinary  man,  who  lived 
far  back  in  the  mountains  and  was  rich  and  kind 
at  the  same  time,  were  dinned  into  the  head  of  the 
man  in  ambush. 

At  sunset,  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day  of 
June,  just  as  the  post-office  was  about  to  close 
and  as  the  last  of  the  idlers  began  to  depart,  a 
man  of  serious  mien,  wearing  a  beard  touched  with 
gray,  stepped  from  an  automobile  in  front  of  the 
building.  He  entered  and  went  to  one  of  the  mail 
slots,  dropping  a  letter  therein. 

It  had  hardly  touched  the  bottom  of  the  little 
chute  when  three  distinct  knocks  sounded  on  the 
glass  window-pane  behind  the  detective.  It  was 
the  signal  agreed  upon  between  the  clerk  within 
and  the  man  on  watch  outside. 

A  thrill  of  exultation  that  was  worth  waiting 
eleven  years  to  experience  shot  through  Kearney. 
His  hands  itched  to  close  on  the  arm  of  this  person. 
The  mastering  of  this  one  emotion  of  which  his 
nature  was  capable  left  him  astonished,  for  he  had 


THE   QUARRY  293 

not  expected  to  come  upon  a  man  of  the  type  before 
him.  There  was  something  so  grave  in  the  eyes  of 
his  quarry  and  in  the  cast  of  his  countenance  that 
one  could  easily  have  mistaken  him  for  a  preacher 
of  the  Word  of  God.  His  carriage  was  dignified  and 
he  was  dressed  soberly  and  without  ornament. 

The  people  on  the  steps  of  the  post-office  had 
drawn  back  respectfully  before  him,  touching 
their  hats.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  widely 
known  and  that  he  was  revered. 

Kearney  had  not  determined  what  step  to 
take  next  when  the  man  whose  shadow  he  was  to 
become  was  stopped  by  another. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Nelson,"  cried  the  citizen  accosting 
him,  "  I  would  like  to  wish  you  all  the  happiness 
in  the  world  the  day  before  your  marriage." 

Nelson's  face  broke  into  a  smile  of  pleasure. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  replied.  "  I  could  never 
hope  to  deserve  all  the  good  wishes  that  have  been 
offered  me." 

"  Deserve  them! "  his  well-wisher  exclaimed. 
"  Why,  the  country  people  from  up  your  way  are 
already  flocking  to  town  in  their  wagons  to  crowd 
about  the  church  during  the  ceremony  and  to  sing 
your  praises.  They  seem  to  feel  that  they  can 


294  THE   QUARRY 

never  do  enough  to  show  how  much  they  love 
you." 

Nelson  looked  embarrassed  and  returned  to  his 
machine  outside. 

Kearney  had  studied  him  from  the  crown  of  his 
head  to  the  heels.  If  that  man  was  Jim  Mont- 
gomery, the  change  was  remarkable.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  follow  him.  He  felt  sure  that  Nel- 
son had  not  seen  him.  A  man  as  prominent  in 
the  community  as  Nelson  was  could  be  easily 
found  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  and  then, 
too,  the  morrow  was  his  wedding  day! 

Kearney  took  the  letter  from  the  postal  employee 
inside  and  went  to  his  hotel  room. 

He  asked  the  clerk  for  his  large  envelope  from 
the  safe,  and  when  his  door  was  closed  behind  him, 
he  drew  forth  the  pictures  from  the  Gallery  of 
Rogues.  He  studied  them  carefully.  The  man 
hunter  felt  that  there  was  some  faint,  intangible 
hint  about  the  eyes  in  the  photographs  which 
connected  them  with  the  man  who  had  mailed  the 
letter  to  Nyack. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

TWO  weeks  of  seclusion  in  their  mountain 
home,  two  weeks  with  every  hour  of  day 
and  night  filled  with  golden  romance,  and 
John  Nelson  and  his  bride  brought  an  end  to 
their  honeymoon. 

The  castle  of  the  one-time  hermit  contained  his 
workshop.  From  it  had  gone  his  latest  invention. 
His  improved  knitting  machines  were  already 
installed  in  a  plant  built  for  them.  His  company 
had  been  capitalized  and  set  in  motion.  He  was 
its  president  and  chief  stockholder. 

Scores  of  women  and  girls  from  the  mill  country 
around  and  even  from  the  backwoods  were  waiting 
for  employment. 

Although  his  knitting  mills  could  produce  the 
same  amount  of  finished  product  at  half  the  oper- 
ating expenses  of  any  other  mill,  Nelson  did  not 
look  forward  to  the  accumulation  of  large  profits. 
He  and  Molly  decided  that  they  would  make  the 
plant  a  model  one,  a  place  where  labor  would  be 


296  THE  QUARRY 

paid  its  highest  figure.  It  would  be  an  industry 
in  which  the  profits  would  find  a  way  to  the  work- 
ers as  much  as  to  the  directors. 

Molly,  radiantly  happy  in  the  possession  of  the 
man  she  loved  and  revered  for  his  goodness,  was 
delighted  with  the  future  before  them.  She  had 
always  shed  benison  about  her,  had  always  been 
helpful  to  others  and  had  with  good  deeds  sweet- 
ened her  own  life  as  well  as  the  lives  of  those  about 
her. 

The  day  was  at  hand  for  the  opening  of  the  new 
plant  and  the  two  motored  to  Greenville  to  select 
their  workers,  instruct  them  in  their  tasks  and 
start  the  machinery  of  a  new  industry. 

Mr.  Bryan,  his  wife  and  his  son  were  at  the  mill 
to  witness  the  start  of  the  new  venture  which 
promised  so  highly.  June  roses  and  nasturtiums 
were  piled  in  a  great  bank  on  Nelson's  desk.  Mr. 
Bryan  had  arranged  another  desk  opposite  for 
Molly,  knowing  her  interest  in  the  mill  people 
who  would  be  chosen  as  operatives.  There  were 
many  little  gifts  of  gold  and  silver  office  utensils 
hidden  under  flowers  for  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom. 

Nelson   had   already   instructed   Molly   in   the 


THE   QUARRY  297 

handling  of  the  machines  he  had  built,  and  the 
two  worked  with  the  girls  patiently  and  taught 
them  their  simple  duties. 

The  first  pay-rolls  were  drawn;  the  first  day's 
work  was  under  way.  Through  the  wide,  open 
windows  of  the  building  came  the  heavy  fragrance 
of  early  summer  in  the  country.  The  grounds 
about  the  plant  were  bright  with  geraniums  and 
beds  of  pansies,  nasturtiums  and  peonies. 

In  the  distant  woodlands  there  was  the  flash  of 
honeysuckle  and  jasmine.  Sunshine  flooded  the 
whole  building.  John  Nelson  pressed  an  electric 
button  on  his  desk,  his  wife's  hand  resting  on  his. 
There  was  the  low  hum  of  machinery  starting. 
It  settled  into  a  purring,  rhythmic  beat. 

The  pretty  mountain  girls,  all  in  their  freshest 
ginghams  and  muslins,  a'll  happy  in  the  possession 
of  well-paid  tasks,  stood  by  the  knitting  machines 
watching  the  flashing  needles  and  the  steady  flow 
of  the  raw  material  that  fed  them.  Molly  Nelson 
paced  the  aisles,  glad  in  her  task  as  forewoman 
for  a  day. 

Nelson's  secretary  brought  him  his  first  batch 
of  mail  in  his  new  business.  He  trimmed  the 
edges  of  the  envelopes  as  he  mused  over  his  happi- 


298  THE   QUARRY 

ness  and  the  rosiness  of  the  future.  He  had  nothing 
to  fear.  Molly  knew  his  secret,  and  there  was  no 
skeleton  in  their  closet. 

Nothing  could  cheat  them  of  the  taste  of  heaven 
that  they  had  had.  Whatever  disaster  — 

A  shadow  fell  athwart  the  room.  A  stranger  was 
on  the  threshold. 

Nelson's  secretary  went  to  the  visitor  and  in- 
quired his  business.  He  said  that  he  would  like 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Nelson,  and  was  offered  a  seat. 

Nelson  glanced  at  the  man  and  opened  a  let- 
ter. 

Fate  was  not  playing  any  petty  game  with 
him.  At  the  moment  that  the  man  hunter  seated 
himself  in  his  presence,  he  received  word  from  his 
old  probationer  friend. 

The  letter,  miserably  scrawled  and  blotted, 
read : 

"  DEAR  KID: — I  ain't  lofing  that's  why  you 
didn't  here  from  me.  I  got  a  chance  to  do  things. 
Dont  count  on  it  to  much  but  if  the  guy  is  living 
I'm  going  to  take  him  to  the  D.  A.  office  or  die 
trying. 

"  BILL." 


THE   QUARRY  299 

The  "  D.  A."  office  meant  the  office  of  the  dis- 
trict attorney  of  the  county  and  State  of  New 
York. 

Nelson  did  not  know  the  face  of  the  man  who 
sat  waiting  to  address  him.  His  visitor  had  re- 
sorted to  the  old  trick  of  sitting  with  his  back  to  the 
light. 

"Well,  sir?"  asked  Nelson. 

The  visitor  half  rose  in  his  chair. 

"  I'd  like  to  talk  with  you  in  private,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  nothing  that  my  secretary  should 
not  hear,"  Nelson  informed  him,  surprised. 

"  Mebbe  there  is,  Mr.  Nelson,"  the  visitor  said, 
with  a  suggestion  of  warning  in  his  voice. 

"  What  is  your  business,  please?  " 

The  visitor  approached  the  desk  and  moved 
the  right  lapel  of  his  coat  as  he  did  so. 

Nelson  saw  on  the  man's  breast  a  gold  badge. 
After  the  first  curious  glance  he  studied  it,  and 
from  the  inscription  in  blue  enamel  learned  that 
his  caller  was  a  captain  of  detectives  of  New  York 
City. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  Nelson  felt  as 
though  his  blood  had  turned  to  ice-water. 

Molly  entered    the  office  and    her    bright   face 


300  THE   QUARRY 

brought  him  in  fuller  realization  of  the  tragedy 
that  was  at  hand.  But  his  years  of  self  denial, 
his  whole  life  of  splendid  control  of  himself  were 
to  stand  him  in  good  stead. 

"  What  is  it  now,  dear? "  he  asked  calmly, 
smiling  as  she  came  to  him. 

"  I  just  came  in  to  tell  you  that  the  girls  are 
doing  splendidly,"  she  said,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  his  desk. 

He  forced  a  laugh  to  his  lips. 

"  I  am  busy,  Molly,"  he  said  in  feigned  reproof. 
''  There  is  a  gentleman  here  who  desires  to  see  me 
on  some  business."  She  turned  and  gave  a  glance 
to  the  detective. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  shall  be  back 
in  twenty  minutes." 

She  left  the  room,  waving  a  kiss  to  her  hus- 
band. 

"  Mr.  Adams,"  he  said  to  his  secretary,  "  you 
are  excused  for  half  an  hour.  This  gentleman  de- 
sires to  see  me  alone." 

Adams  put  aside  the  correspondence  he  had 
started  to  go  through  and  left  the  room. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Nelson  to  his  visitor. 

Kearney's  keen  little  eyes  were  studying  every 


THE  QUARRY  301 

line  in  the  countenance  of  the  man  before  him. 
Suddenly  he  stared  Nelson  full  in  the  face,  with 
that  trick  of  the  detective  which  aims  to  discon- 
cert the  man  under  suspicion. 

Nelson's  eyes  met  his  squarely.  His  heart  was 
beating  like  a  trip-hammer  but  his  face  was  a 
mask. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Mr.  Montgomery,"  began  Kearney. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Nelson." 

Cautiously,  Kearney  abandoned  this  line  of 
attack. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Nelson,"  he  said,  "but  I 
am  looking  for  James  Montgomery,  who  came  here 
about  six  years  ago,  got  a  job  in  one  of  the  mills 
as  a  mechanic  and  rapidly  made  a  name  and  for- 
tune for  himself." 

"  I  never  heard  of  him,"  replied  Nelson,  real- 
izing that  the  change  he  had  made  in  his  appear- 
ance had  produced  uncertainty  in  the  mind  of  his 
questioner.  "  May  I  ask  your  name  and  busi- 
ness ?  " 

"  I'm  Mike  Kearney  of  the  New  York  detective 
bureau,"  the  sleuth  told  him. 

"  You  wish  to  arrest  this  man  Montgomery?  " 


302  THE  QUARRY 

"  Yes." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"  Murder.    He  is  an  escaped  convict." 

"  In  such  a  quiet  community  as  this  we  would 
soon  know  of  the  presence  of  a  man  of  the  criminal 
type." 

Nelson  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  to  the 
nearest  window. 

His  powerful  motor  was  near  enough  to  the 
ledge  for  him  to  spring  into  it  and  be  off  in  a 
flash.  The  thought  came  to  him  but  he  did  not 
act  upon  it. 

Kearney  showed  a  slight  trace  of  uneasiness. 
During  his  stay  in  Greenville  he  had  heard  nothing 
but  praise  for  the  virtues  of  the  man  he  felt  sure 
was  the  one  he  wanted.  The  poor  were  especially 
loud  in  their  acclaim.  The  workers  delighted  in 
telling  how  fair  he  was  in  his  dealings  with  them 
and  how  they  benefited  as  much  from  his  inven- 
tions as  did  the  mill  owners. 

He  had  heard  in  a  vague  way  of  philanthropists 
among  the  rich,  people  who  gave  books  or  money 
to  colleges  or  who  kept  up  the  settlements  in  the 
poor  sections  of  New  York.  But  he  had  not  heard 
of  any  one  man  who  gave  all  his  life,  the  product 


THE   QUARRY  303 

of  his  brains  and  the  wealth  that  came  to  him  so 
that  as  many  people  as  possible  around  him  would 
have  happiness. 

"  I've  got  Montgomery's  records  with  me," 
he  said  finally.  "  The  Bertillon  system  makes  it 
impossible  for  an  officer  of  the  law  to  make  a 
mistake  in  identification.  I  got  his  pictures." 

He  reached  into  his  inside  coat  pocket  and  pulled 
out  the  two  Rogues'  Gallery  photographs  of 
James  Montgomery,  handing  them  to  the  man 
standing  at  the  window. 

Nelson  pretended  to  glance  idly  at  the  pictures. 
He  beheld  his  own  countenance  as  a  boy  when  he 
was  fresh  from  the  country.  He  saw  the  strained 
look  in  the  eyes  and  the  heavy  lines  in  the  face, 
the  misery  and  despair  that  were  his  that  day 
eleven  years  before  when  he  was  taken  by  the 
police. 

His  hand  trembled  ever  so  slightly  as  he  looked 
at  the  photographs. 

"  He  does  not  look  like  a  murderer  or  a  crimi- 
nal," he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  "  This 
looks  to  be  the  face  of  some  poor  boy,  some  country 
youth  who  might  have  made  one  mistake  in  life 
or  who  might  have  been  unjustly  accused.  If 


304  THE   QUARRY 

he  committed  any  crime  there  must  have  been 
some  reason  other  than  sheer  criminal  instinct. 
I  could  hardly  believe  this  boy  a  murderer." 

He  handed  back  the  pictures  to  the  detective. 

"  I  have  his  finger-prints,"  said  Kearney.  He 
drew  the  Bertillon  record  from  his  pocket.  His 
uneasiness  increased.  He  mopped  his  brow  and 
felt  as  if  some  strange,  insidious  influence  was  .at 
work  within  him  to  sidetrack  him  from  the  path 
of  duty. 

"  Now,  if  a  man  was  suspected  wrongly  of  being 
Montgomery,"  he  suggested,  "  that  man  would 
only  have  to  give  his  finger-prints  and  his  true 
identity  would  be  shown." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  such  matters,"  replied 
Nelson. 

He  was  prepared  to  meet  any  demand  of  the 
law  save  that  of  showing  the  little  whorls,  circles, 
islands  and  parabolae  in  the  cuticle  of  his  fingers. 

Kearney  had  taken  a  little  box  filled  with  char- 
coal dust  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  was 
spreading  some  of  it  on  a  sheet  of  white  paper. 

He  was  ready  to  make  the  demand  for  proof  from 
John  Nelson  that  he  was  not  James  Montgomery. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

JOHN  NELSON  stood  watching  the  sleuth  as 
he  made  ready  for  this  single  simple  but 
awful  test. 

He  determined  to  play  for  time.  Why,  he 
did  not  know,  for  a  few  seconds,  minutes  or  even 
days  would  mean  little  to  him  now. 

"  If  there  is  anything  further  you  wish  to  say," 
he  told  Kearney,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me. 
This  mill  has  just  been  opened  and  I  am  anxious 
about  the  new  operatives.  I  would  not  have  one 
of  my  girls  hurt  for  all  the  money  that  might  be 
made  with  machinery." 

He  went  to  a  wide  door  which  opened  directly 
into  the  operating  room.  Kearney  heard  the 
purring  of  the  machinery  increase  in  volume  as 
Nelson  passed  through  the  open  door. 

He  now  felt  sure  that  Nelson  was  James  Mont- 
gomery and  that  the  finger-print  test  would  prove 
it  beyond  a  shadow  of  a  doubt.  But  he  did  not 
bay  his  delight  as  would  the  real  hound  when  his 


306  THE   QUARRY 

quarry  was  run  down.  He  realized  that  the 
task  before  him  was  going  to  smack  of  danger. 
Nelson  was  fairly  idolized  by  the  people  among 
whom  he  had  found  refuge  from  the  law.  These 
people  were  more  or  less  primitive  and  had  a  sense 
of  justice  not  built  upon  statutes  reeled  off  yearly 
by  Tammany  legislators.  If  the  news  spread  that 
Nelson  had  been  made  a  prisoner  and  was  to  be 
taken  from  the  community  he  had  made  better 
and  happier  for  his  existence  there,  at  least  the 
rough  country  people  would  protest.  These 
people  he  had  fed  when  hungry,  had  succored 
from  distress  and  had  sheltered  when  shelterless. 

But  he  was  still  the  implacable  law  officer, 
the  machinelike  product  of  machine  government, 
and  he  would  run  no  chance  of  his  man  slipping 
from  him  after  all  these  years.  He  followed  Nelson 
into  the  operating  room  and  saw  him  greet  his 
wife. 

Upper  and  nether  files  of  bright,  new  needles 
gnashed  away  steadily  at  their  work,  as  the  girls 
fed  them  with  material  and  the  finished  product 
flowed  into  large  wicker  baskets. 

A  number  of  the  young  women,  interested  as 
young  women  are  in  a  bride  and  groom,  turned 


THE   QUARRY  307 

at  their  work  to  watch,  with  many  smiles  and 
nods,  the  greeting  between  Nelson  and  Molly. 
One  of  the  girls,  with  a  heavy  mass  of  black  hair, 
had  dropped  her  tresses  because  of  the  heat  of 
the  day.  Nelson  saw  her  turn  with  a  smile  to 
speak  to  another  operative  several  feet  away.  In 
a  second  he  realized  her  danger.  A  strand  of  her 
hair  in  one  of  the  cogs  of  his  machinery  and  she 
would  meet  a  frightful  death. 

He  forgot  his  own  terrible  predicament,  al- 
though his  own  fate  trembling  in  the  balance, 
was  even  worse  than  death. 

A  braid  of  the  girl's  hair  swept  into  the  steel 
cogs  of  the  machine  she  had  been  operating.  At 
the  pull  on  her  scalp  she  uttered  a  shriek  that  rang 
through  the  building.  The  tireless  double  row 
of  needles  worked  away  within  a  few  inches  of 
the  head  of  the  unfortunate  girl. 

Her  cry  was  echoed  by  a  roar  from  Nelson  to 
the  man  in  charge  of  the  switch  controlling  the 
current. 

In  two  bounds  he  reached  the  girl  and  caught 
the  fastened  braid  of  hair  with  both  hands.  Her 
head  fell  under  his  right  arm.  He  gave  a  mighty, 
twisting  pull  as  the  current  was  cut  off  and  the 


308  THE   QUARRY 

machine  began  to  slow  down.  The  hair  was  torn 
free  of  the  cogs  and  the  girl  dropped  in  a  dead  faint 
to  the  floor.  The  needles  still  flashed,  but  slowly. 

Kearney  had  run  toward  Nelson  to  help  in 
the  rescue  of  the  girl  if  he  could.  He  saw  the 
mill  president  stagger,  as  if  faint.  His  face  was 
whiter  than  the  sheet  of  paper  he  had  used  to  hold 
his  charcoal  dust. 

The  detective  saw  Nelson's  lips  come  together 
in  a  firm,  blue  line.  The  blood  had  left  them.  He 
spread  forth  his  hands  and  in  one  terrible,  ghastly 
moment  made  his  sacrifice. 

The  two  hands  fell  between  the  bright  needles 
and  the  upper  and  nether  files  sunk  into  them, 
tearing  through  every  finger,  destroying  completely 
the  one  strange  stamp  of  absolute  human  indi- 
viduality that  Nature  has  provided  —  the  record 
of  the  flesh  itself. 

No  cry  escaped  Nelson's  lips.  The  agony  was 
keen,  but  what  was  such  agony  compared  to  that 
which  would  be  his  if  the  man  from  New  York 
Police  Headquarters  slipped  handcuffs  upon  him 
and  took  him  from  his  wife,  from  the  people  he  had 
worked  with  and  for,  to  be  taken  away  and  be 
buried  alive? 


THE   QUARRY  309 

Molly  had  started  toward  her  husband  but  her 
woman's  nature  was  not  equal  to  the  horror  of 
the  moment.  She  fell  face  downward  to  the 
floor. 

The  machinery  came  to  a  full  stop  but  the  steel 
jaws  had  closed  over  Nelson's  hands. 

Kearney  was  the  nearest  man  to  him. 

"  Just  move  that  iron  rod  to  the  right  there," 
he  heard  Nelson  say.  "  Move  it  slowly,  just  an 
inch  backward." 

Kearney  obeyed  and  the  jaws  released  their 
hold. 

"  There  is  a  physician  in  the  Reedy  Mills," 
called  Nelson,  to  one  of  the  white-faced  girls. 
"  Telephone  him  quickly." 

He  turned  to  another  girl,  ignoring  Kearney. 

"  Quick,"  he  instructed  her.  "  Tie  some  of  this 
material  tightly  about  my  wrists." 

He  held  forth  his  dripping  hands. 

The  sleuth,  his  mind  for  a  moment  blank  with 
horror  at  this  deliberate  sacrifice,  grabbed  up  a 
piece  of  knitted  material  and  made  a  tourniquet, 
first  for  one  wrist  and  then  for  the  other. 

The  mill  physician  arrived  as  this  first  aid 
work  was  accomplished.  He  quickly  cleaned  and 


310  THE   QUARRY 

made  aseptic  the  myriad  little  wounds  in  the 
hands  of  Nelson. 

"  The  bones  of  four  fingers  in  the  right  hand 
and  of  three  in  the  left  seem  to  be  broken,"  he 
said,  as  he  began  bandaging.  "  They  will  mend 
easily.  In  a  month,  only  the  scars  will  be  left." 

Molly  had  come  from  her  swoon  and  was  holding 
her  husband's  bandaged  hands  lightly  in  her  own, 
her  tears  wetting  them.  She  was  fully  cognizant 
of  all  that  had  happened.  She  knew  who  the 
stranger  was  standing  stupidly  but  with  an  ashen 
face  near  her. 

Kearney  slipped  back  to  the  office,  picked  up 
the  photographs  from  Nelson's  desk,  put  on  his 
hat  and  made  his  way  furtively  from  the  building. 


CHAPTER  XL 

INSPECTOR     RANSCOMBE    was     cleaning 
out  his  desk. 

The  end  of  his  police  career  had  come.  He 
had  been  placed  on  the  retired  list  and  an  order 
from  a  new  commissioner  that  morning  had  broken 
the  news  to  him  suddenly,  viciously,  that  he  was 
no  longer  wanted. 

Lieutenant  Jimmy  Dunn,  in  the  big  room  out- 
side, had  heard  the  "  Old  Man  "  roar.  Rans- 
combe  wanted  to  die  in  harness.  He  was  old  but 
he  knew  his  job  and  had  plenty  of  virility. 

The  new  commissioner  was  entirely  a  political 
appointee.  The  "  lid  "  had  been  kept  on  New 
York  a  little  too  long  and  the  gamblers  and  others 
who  made  their  fortunes  by  violating  the  law  had 
squeezed  down  on  the  mayor  through  Tammany 
Hall.  An  election  was  at  hand  and  the  mayor  had 
to  obey  or  retire  to  private  life  for  the  rest  of  his 
days. 

The  scowl  that  had  frighte-ned  many  a  crooked 


312  THE   QUARRY 

detective  lay  heavily  on  his  forehead,  and  in  his 
eyes,  as  Ranscombe  selected  his  personal  papers 
from  those  that  were  departmental,  was  a  glint 
of  bitter  protest. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it?  What  d'yiih  want?  "  he  growled 
angrily. 

Kearney  showed  his  face  in  the  door,  timidly. 

"  Come  in,  Boss?  "  he  asked. 

Ranscombe  nodded  and  returned  to  his  task. 

"  I  found  him,  Boss,"  began  Kearney. 

"  Found  who?  "  snapped  the  inspector.  "  For 
God's  sake  get  it  out  of  your  system  and  beat 
it." 

"  Jim  Montgomery,  who  escaped  from  Sing 
Sing,"  explained  Kearney,  twisting  a  felt  hat 
nervously  in  his  hands. 

The  inspector  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Jim  Montgomery?  "  he  repeated,  as  he  reached 
for  a  telegram  on  his  desk. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  didn't  bring  him  back  with  me." 

"  Oh,  you  didn't?  That  was  considerate.  I 
guess  you  found  out  that  we  had  the  wrong  man 
in  stir,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.    It  wasn't  that.    I  found  that  he  was 


THE   QUARRY  313 

on  the  level  all  these  years.  He  was  just  married 
and  he  changed  his  measurements  so  that  all  I 
could  get  to  prove  he  was  the  man  was  his  finger- 
prints. When  I  tried  to  get  them  from  him  he 
stuck  his  hands  in  some  machinery  and  —  " 

"What!" 

The  inspector  half  rose  from  his  chair.  His 
heavy  jaws  came  together  with  a  snap. 

"  Yes,  sir.  He'd  made  a  good  name  and  rather 
than  disgrace  it  and  his  wife  and  the  people  he 
lived  among  —  " 

"  Hell,  man,  d'yiih  mean  to  say  that  you  let  him 
make  that  sacrifice?  " 

The  inspector's  face  was  splotched  with  the 
purple  of  a  mighty  wrath. 

"  I  didn't  know  he  was  going  to  do  it,  Boss," 
Kearney  replied,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  Before 
God,  I'd  'a'  thrown  down  my  job  before  I'd  'a' 
stood  for  that." 

Ranscombe  brought  his  right  fist  down  on  his 
desk  and  shot  out  his  lower  jaw  as  he  stared  at 
Kearney. 

"  You  bloodhound,"  he  half  screamed. 

Kearney  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  the  desk 
and  half  covered  his  face  with  his  big,  red  paws. 


314  THE   QUARRY 

"  God,  Boss,"  he  groaned.  "  Montgomery  was 
the  kind  of  a  man  who  would  be  crucified  for 
those  he  loved." 

"  How  did  you  trail  him  ?  " 

"  I  went  to  his  home  town  and  found  that  his 
mother  was  dead,"  explained  the  man  hunter. 
"  I  looked  up  the  cemetery  and  found  that  the 
keeper  was  being  paid  for  caring  for  the  grave. 
I  traced  the  letters  enclosing  the  money  and  found 
that  —  the  son." 

"Blessed  Virgin!"  exclaimed  the  inspector. 
"  Didn't  you  have  heart  enough  or  brains  enough 
to  stop?  " 

"  When  I  reached  him  I  wanted  to  stop.  I 
wanted  to  stop,  Boss.  But  you  trained  me  never 
to  let  up." 

Ranscombe  kicked  back  his  chair  and  paced'the 
room,  holding  in  his  hands  the  telegram  he  had 
taken  from  his  desk. 

He  shuddered  when  he  paused  before  his  sleuth 
whom  he  had  trained  so  well. 

"  Read  that,"  he  said,  handing  him  the  tele- 
gram. 

Kearney  scratched  his  head  as  he  read  the 
words  of  this  message: 


THE   QUARRY  .      315 

"  TUCSON,  ARIZONA. 
"  RANSCOMBE, 

"  Chief  Detectives,  New  York: 

"  Harry  Gutzler,  old  yegg,  dying  here  of 
consumption,  confesses  murder  of  Trueblood, 
bank  watchman,  New  York,  eleven  years  ago. 
Ex-convict  named  Hawkins  found  him  in  bad 
lands  and  brought  him  in. 

"  ALSOP,  Chief." 

The  inspector  had  gone  to  a  window  and  was 
staring  out  of  it  abstractedly. 

Kearney  read  the  telegram  a  second  and  then 
a  third  time.  He  looked  up  at  the  broad  back  of 
his  chief,  placed  the  telegram  on  his  desk  and 
moved  gingerly  from  the  room.  He  did  not  lift 
his  eyes  or  speak  a  word  as  he  passed  Jimmy 
Dunn,  perched,  round  and  cherublike,  on  a  chair 
at  the  big  desk  of  the  assembly  room.  His  travel- 
ing bag  lay  near  the  brass  rail  about  the  desk.  He 
picked  it  up  without  stopping  and  departed  from 
headquarters. 

Kearney  took  a  trolley  to  Duane  Street  and 
transferred  to  a  horse-car  to  the  further  East  Side. 

The  dust  and  grime  of  long  travel  were  still  on 


316  THE   QUARRY 

him.  In  the  return  from  the  last  lap  in  the  long 
man  hunt  that  had  taken  eleven  years,  he  had  had 
too  many  things  to  think  over  to  bother  about 
wash  basins  and  combs  and  brushes. 

On  the  stoop  of  the  old-fashioned  house  in 
Oliver  Street  he  found  a  group  of  old  Irish  women 
of  the  neighborhood.  He  knew  their  faces  and 
nodded  to  them. 

They  huddled  in  a  tighter  knot  of  worried  hu- 
manity. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Ye're  none  too  soon,"  said  one  of  them. 

The  others  began  to  croon  softly  to  themselves. 
He  knew  what  that  meant. 

The  grip  fell  from  his  hand,  but  he  steadied 
himself  and  entered  the  house,  mounting  the 
stairs  slowly.  He  walked  into  the  kitchen  of  the 
little  flat  and  found  it  spotlessly  clean. 

An  old  woman  sat  in  a  chair  by  the  window, 
the  beads  of  a  rosary  passing  through  her  withered 
fingers. 

She  was  not  his  mother! 

Kearney  removed  his  hat  and  crossed  the 
threshold  of  his  old  mother's  bedroom.  She  lay 
in  bed  and  at  first  he  thought  her  asleep. 


THE  QUARRY  317 

Her  hands,  like  brown  wax,  were  clasped  about 
the  last  copy  of  the  "  Key  of  Heaven  "  he  had 
bought  for  her. 

Beside  the  head  of  the  bed  two  holy  candles 
burned  on  a  little  table.  A  priest  knelt  on  the 
floor,  praying  for  the  soul  of  the  departed. 

Kearney  fell  upon  his  knees  and  crossed  himself 
once,  twice  and  a  third  time. 

A  cry  of  distress  came  from  the  bottommost 
reaches  of  his  heart  in  a  low,  pitifully  sad  whine. 

"Aie!    Aie!    Aie!  "  it  sounded. 

It  was  the  plaint  of  an  animal  with  a  soul. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE  last  act  of  Inspector  Ranscombe,  before 
turning  over  his  office  to  his  successor,  was 
to  send  to  John  Nelson  the  original  police 
records  taken  of  James  Montgomery.    He  offered 
his  services  in  any  step  that  he   might   take   to 
have  the  courts  of   New  York  right  the  wrong 
that   had    been   done   him.     The  inspector   also 
wrote  confidentially  to  the  governor  of  the  State 
giving  full  details  of  the  case. 

Nelson,  his  hands  again  healed,  and  his  wife 
and  her  family  grateful  that  he  had  not  been 
permanently  crippled,  took  Mr.  Bryan  into  his 
confidence  and  placed  the  whole  matter  before 
him,  asking  his  advice. 

The  police  of  Tucson  provided  the  New  York 
authorities  with  ample  details  of  the  confession 
of  the  dying  yegg.  He  was  too  far  gone  to  send 
East  a  prisoner.  When  Nelson  learned  of  this, 
he  asked  that  efforts  be  made  to  let  the  man  die 


THE   QUARRY  319 

outside  of  prison.  The  yegg's  own  Maker  had 
taken  his  case  from  the  hands  of  the  law. 

Mr.  Bryan  engaged  eminent  counsel  in  New 
York  to  have  the  case  of  James  Montgomery 
formally  re-opened  by  the  Appellate  Division  of 
the  Supreme  Court.  A  reversal  of  the  verdict 
found  by  the  lower  court  was  entered  in  the 
records  and  "  Acquitted  "  replaced  the  word 
"  Convicted." 

The  name  of  Nelson  had  its  value  in  the  world, 
a  value  made  by  terrific  effort,  by  kindness,  by 
compassion,  by  struggle  and  by  intellect.  The 
woman  he  loved  had  taken  that  name.  The 
people  among  whom  he  had  worked  had  accepted 
it  as  representing  all  that  was  fine  and  high  and 
noble. 

The  Supreme  Court  of  South  Carolina,  in 
chambers,  gave  to  James  Montgomery  the  right 
to  have  legal  use  of  the  name  of  John  Nelson. 
This  document  from  the  court  was  placed  in  the 
archives  of  the  State  without  publicity. 

While  the  last  of  these  details,  clearing  away 
the  past  and  making  straight  the  future  for 
Nelson,  were  being  attended  to  by  lawyers,  John 
Nelson  himself,  his  wife  and  her  parents  were 


320  THE   QUARRY 

walking  impatiently  up  and  down  the  station 
platform  of  the  Southern  Railway  in  Green- 
ville. 

Mr.  Bryan's  finest  horses  and  traps,  his  negro 
coachman  in  the  freshest  of  linen  suits  and 
brown  straw  beavers,  were  there  also.  Guests 
and  very  important  guests,  evidently,  were 
expected. 

The  crowd  that  always  gathered  to  greet  the 
express  train  from  the  north  fidgeted  with  im- 
patience. Perhaps  a  party  of  famous  million- 
aires or  renowned  statesmen  was  coming  to 
Greenville.  The  Bryan  family  had  never  turned 
out  so  conspicuously  at  the  station  in  all  its 
history. 

The  faint  shriek  of  the  locomotive  in  the  dis- 
tance brought  the  idlers  nearer  the  tracks  to  peer 
northward  and  get  a  glimpse  of  the  oncoming 
train. 

Molly  Nelson  clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 
Mr.  Bryan's  face  was  wreathed  with  smiles. 
The  coachmen  flicked  the  ears  of  their  fine 
teams  and  started  them  to  capering  jauntily  and 
gaily. 

If  the  President  of  the  United  States  and  his 


THE   QUARRY  321 

cabinet  had  been  coming  to  Greenville  on  that 
train,  no  finer  welcome  could  have  been  given 
them. 

The  train  thundered  up  and  white-capped 
porters  jumped  from  the  steps  of  the  coaches. 

Among  the  passengers  were  two  old  people, 
one  a  bent,  white-haired  man  with  long  arms  and 
a  face  that  would  have  been  grotesque  in  its 
ugliness  but  for  a  smile  of  patience  and  gentleness 
that  played  about  his  clean-shaven  lips;  the 
other  was  a  slender  woman  well  beyond  middle 
age,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  dolman  and  hat 
that  had  been  long  years  out  of  fashion. 

To  this  homely  and  humble  pair  the  Bryans 
and  the  Nelsons  rushed  with  cries  of  joyful  greet- 
ings. 

The  Bryan  servants  fought  to  win  the  honor 
of  carrying  their  two  pieces  of  luggage.  The 
coachmen  made  their  horses  dance  afresh. 

The  crowd  exclaimed  in  one  long  drawn  "  Ah  " 
as  the  pretty  Mrs.  Nelson  deliberately  kissed 
the  bent  old  visitor  and  then  put  her  arm  about 
the  waist  of  the  woman  who  had  come  with 
him. 

A  strange  word  of  greeting  for  the  ears  of  the 


322  THE   QUARRY 

rich  and  the  fashionable  came  from  the  lips  of  the 
old  man  to  John  Nelson. 

"Kid!" 

"Bill!"  was  the  reply. 

The  stately  Mrs.  Bryan  was  making  as  much  of 
the  flustered,  little,  old  woman,  whom  the  crowd 
heard  called  by  the  name  of  "  Jennie  "  as  Mr. 
Bryan  and  Mr.  Nelson  were  making  of  the  homely 
man  called  "  Bill." 

The  train  pulled  out  on  its  way  to  Atlanta  and 
the  party  bundled  into  the  fine  carriages. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hawkins  were  taken  to  their  new 
home  —  their  first  real  home.  It  might  have  been 
called  a  cottage  in  the  South,  but  to  the  woman 
from  Corlear's  Hook  it  was  a  mansion  such  as 
she  had  never  dreamed  of  entering,  even  as  a 
servant. 

Fresh  and  spick  and  span  in  new  paint,  its 
garden  a  tangle  of  glorious  blossoms,  its  piazzas 
wide  and  cool  and  its  grounds  stretching  a  good 
ten  acres  about  it,  Bill  and  his  wife  thought  it 
the  home  of  the  Bryans. 

They  entered  the  house.  It  was  finely  but 
modestly  furnished.  Silver  glistened  on  the  side- 
board and  vases  and  jars  of  cut-glass  were  filled 


THE   QUARRY  323 

with  freshly  cut  flowers.  Everywhere  was  a  touch 
of  femininity  and  cosiness,  showing  the  hand  of 
Molly  Nelson. 

There  were  comfortable  desks  and  easy  chairs, 
lamps  that  hung  low  and  spread  soft  lights  for 
old  eyes,  and  many  rugs.  There  was  even  a  fat, 
sleepy  tabby  dozing  on  a  cushion  in  one  of  the 
window  seats. 

Molly  took  Mrs.  Hawkins  to  her  bedroom,  a 
front  room  with  a  verandah.  She  threw  wide 
the  deep  windows  and  the  East  Side  woman  gazed 
out  into  the  loveliness  of  the  garden. 

"  It's  grand,"  she  gasped.  "  Mrs.  Nelson,  it's 
grand,  ma'am.  Central  Park  never  had  anything 
on  this." 

Nelson  had  brought  behind  them  his  old  friend 
and  helper,  the  man  who  was  of  the  type  that 
society  had  given  up  as  unregenerate.  The  de- 
mands of  his  probation  from  Sing  Sing  had  all  been 
met.  The  rest  of  his  life  was  to  be  what  he  would 
make  it  for  himself. 

Nelson  signalled  to  Molly  to  come  to  him. 
'  We  are  going  to  leave  you  two  together  for 
awhile,"  he  said  to  the  old  probationer.     "  This 
is  your  home  and  your  wife's  home." 


324  THE   QUARRY 

Bill's  shaggy  eyebrows  were  raised  in  surprise. 

"  You  mean  for  a  visit?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  mean  forever,"  replied  Nelson.  "  You  will 
find  the  deeds  in  your  desk  down-stairs." 

Nelson  drew  Molly  from  the  room. 

As  they  closed  the  door  they  heard  Mrs.  Haw- 
kins sobbing. 


FINIS. 


By  the  author  of  "  The  Mountain  Girl.1 


JOYFUL  HEATHERBY 


By  PAYNE  ERSKINE 
Illustrated  by  M.  Leone  Bracker.    $1.35  net 


This  splendid  novel  is  Payne  Erskine's  masterpiece,  a  story 
so  full  of  the  struggle  and  strength  and  interest  of  life  today 
that  it  stirs  our  emotions  deeply  while  it  delights  us  with  its 
unusual  plot  and  masterly  character  drawing. 

The  scenes  are  chiefly  laid  in  Boston  and  in  a  small  New 
England  coast  town,  the  leading  characters  being  an  artist  and 
a  delightful  country  girl  whose  charm  and  innocence  will  appeal 
strongly  to  every  reader  who  comes  to  know  her.  The  perfect 
type  of  unspoiled  American  womanhood,  Joyful  is  as  charming 
a  heroine  as  has  been  portrayed  in  fiction  in  many  a  day.  To 
tell  the  story  of  this  appealing  romance  in  detail  would  be  to 
lessen  the  reader's  pleasure  in  one  of  the  most  remarkable  novels 
of  recent  years;  it  must  suffice  to  say  that  "Joyful  Heatherby  " 
is  a  strong  and  appealing  love  story,  in  which  people  of  rare 
quality  are  pictured  and  some  of  the  most  vital  problems  of  the 
day  are  handled  illuminatingly  and  inspiringly. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


A  dramatic  story  of  love  and  life 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


By  A.  S.  M.  HUTCHINSON 
Author  of  "Once  Aboard  the  Lugger,"  etc. 

Frontispiece.     12mo.     $1.36  net. 


Mr.  Hutch  in  son  has  in  "The  Happy  Warrior"  written  a 
modern  romance  with  literary  qualities  that  invites  comparison 
with  the  best  work  of  those  authors  of  a  generation  ago  whose 
names  have  become  household  words. 

Lord  and  Lady  Burdon's  sudden  elevation  to  the  peerage 
is  due  to  the  untimely  death  in  India  of  the  gallant  young  Lord 
Burdon,  the  twelfth  baron,  while  leading  a  charge  in  a  sharp 
frontier  engagement.  But  it  appears  that  the  dead  peer  had 
contracted  a  secret  marriage  before  he  left  for  India,  and  Lady 
Burdon  has  scarcely  established  herself  in  her  new  surround- 
ings when  Audrey,  the  widow  of  the  brave  young  soldier,  ap- 
pears on  the  scene.  Repelled  by  Lady  Burdon,  she  dies  in 
giving  birth  to  a  boy,  left  in  the  care  of  her  sister,  who  is  de- 
termined to  secure  revenge. 

The  growth  to  manhood  and  the  love  affairs  of  these  two 
children,  one  the  son  of  the  new  Lady  Burdon,  who  inherits  the 
title  from  his  father,  and  the  other  the  real  peer  in  the  person 
of  the  posthumous  son  of  the  late  Lord  Burdon,  provide  a 
theme  which  only  a  skilled  hand  could  deal  with  in  a  convincing 
manner. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


By  the  author  of  "The  Broad  Highway" 


THE 
AMATEUR  GENTLEMAN 


By  JEFFERY  FARNOL 
Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer.     12mo.    $1.40  net. 


By  the  complete  and  overwhelming  success  of  "The  Broad 
Highway,"  Jeffery  Farnol  has  permanently  fixed  his  name  in 
the  minds  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  readers  throughout  the 
English-speaking  world,  and  the  publication  of  a  new  novel 
from  his  pen  is  certain  to  arouse  the  widest  interest.  "The 
Amateur  Gentleman,"  the  first  story  he  has  written  since  "The 
Broad  Highway"  was  published,  possesses  the  same  qualities 
which  gave  that  book  its  universal  appeal — the  charm  of  style, 
the  fresh,  unusual  humor,  the  vigorous  yet  whimsical  character- 
izations. The  period  is  the  early  nineteenth  century,  the  scene 
England,  and  you  will  read  of  country  things  and  people,  of 
gentlemen  of  fashion  and  fine  ladies,  of  romantic  adventure,  and 
hand-to-hand  encounters  and,  most  of  all,  of  true  love  —  the 
whole  making  an  entrancing  story  rich  in  sentiment  and  over- 
flowing with  ennobling  human  nature. 

Barnabas  Barty,  a  country-bred  youth,  son  of  the  retired 
champion  pugilist  of  England,  is  left  a  fortune ;  he  sets  forth 
for  London  to  "become  a  gentleman,"  has  many  adventures, 
meets  people  of  widely  different  types,  and  falls  in  love  with  a 
fascinating  heroine. 

"The  Amateur  Gentleman"  is  likely  to  be  the  most  popu- 
lar book  of  the  year. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


By  the  author  of  "  The  Wood-carver  of  'Lympus.' 


A  CRY 
IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


By  MARY  K  WALLER 
Frontispiece  in  color  by  A.  I.  Keller.     $1.30  net. 


As  complete  a  revelation  of  a  woman's  heart  and  mind  as 
Jane  Eyre.  — Boston  Globe. 

A  fresh  and  delightful  story,  full  of  living  interest  and  of 
sentiment — New  York  World. 

A  worthy  successor  to  "The  Wood-carver  of  'Lympus"  and 
"Flamsted  Quarries."  .  .  .  Absorbing  and  emotion-stirring. 
— Philadelphia  Record. 

Really  an  uncommonly  interesting  romance.  ...  It 
carries  with  it  a  deep  human  appeal  that  cannot  escape  mature 
readers.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

Miss  Waller  has  written  good  books  before,  notably  "The 
Wood-carver  of  'Lympus,"  but  her  latest  may  be  regarded  as 
her  best. — St.  Louis  Post-Despatch. 

Tells  with  much  emotional  power,  a  story  with  a  tangled  plot 
and  mystery.  Miss  Waller  writes  with  distinction,  and  her  work 
is  always  characterized  by  fineness  of  fibre  and  nobility  of 
feeling.—  New  York  Times. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


3   1158  00721    9750 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000130553     1 


